seeing ahead

seeing-ahead
I know what is to come,
and the lack of fight in me,
makes me a coward.

How else can I stare,
with certainty in my heart,
at what has transpired ahead,
knowing well,
the said and unsaid,
and drag my self to the pace of indifference,
gaiting along,
baiting the futures song,
and still commit all this wrong.

We have the lore laid out in front of us,
the law above and around us,
and still we shy from our fate,
ignoring God,
but in our ego placing full trust.

We’re a special kind of stupid,
to be given all these gifts,
only to tear open the wrapping,
and spit in the face of the Giver.

W.E.

We is

emption-is

Emotion is;

The gentle tap,
of the heart on intellects door,
reminding it to stop with analysis,
and feel more.

The mind is;

Just a melting pot,
for all that you know to settle,
just a holding spot,
whilst the world tests your mettle.

The heart is;

Where whirlwinds of emotions,
go to confide,
where secrets are kept,
either come out, or hide.

The ego is;

Such a heavy burden,
and insidious reasoning,
only when subdued and slayed,
can come your awakening.

The body is;

Just a vessel, container,
a carrier for all,
whatever your size,
buried, whether grand or with shortfalls.

The soul is;

Innocent and free of,
all of the above,
pure and intact,
only attracted to love.

So where are you,
in your mind,
in your body,
in your heart and soul,
where is your ego,
are you parted or whole?

Do you even know,
whatever you trick yourself to believe,
will be denied when time comes,
and your soul replays, and your mind retrieves.

On that day, you’re mute,
tongue tied and can no longer lie,
that day that is coming to us like an arrow,
when we die, try as you may to deny.

Wesam El dahabi

When there is no water

when-there-is-no-water

Ablution is performed with water,
water, is a large proportion of our make up,
that, we can agree on.

But when water is unavailable,
the subtlety of our make up becomes apparent,
that we’re fashioned,
by the hand that wishes upon us consciousness,
awe, love and submission,
what else is left,
but an utter admission,
of impurity,
of sin,
so heed this admonition,
and know, your road away from perdition,
is to know the fabric of your soul,
your earthly composition.
W.E.

Overwhelmed with guilt

wave_prints_black_and_white

Overwhelmed with guilt.

I’m cleansed,
I’m forgiven,
the ocean said so,
and I’m running,
with sand between my toes as proof.
That is why I swim so much.

When the heat of your sins burns you,
whips you with a molten blade,
flagellation is an easy task.

So I must,
dip my being into the ocean,
be one with the multiplicity of hydrogen and oxygen,
all of me, and all of it,
what a wondrous love affair,
that it bathes my fear away,
with the loofah of reassurance.

I’m washed, and ready to sin again,
one day, this ocean will dry,
and I will burn,
then, it is you God I beg for pardon and ocean.

W.E.

Entitlement

10_25

Entitlement

If you cannot see,
that the reward for obedience,
is obedience,
then you are void of obedience,
and have no business,
demanding a reward.

Conversely,
even if you are obedient,
seeing your obedience,
is self-aggrandising,
and since you witness yourself so well,
you will be called to account,
against yourself.

And the one rancid in disobedience,
aware of their disobedience,
may just reap the reward you so seek,
from the remorse and brokenness of their state.

W.E.

2950e5a09ff85da5f54f8a3c6907c7c2

-No Filters

mosque1

-No filters

Fitting for the thoughts that this place always inspires,
like the hand of a saint brushed past it’s walls,
it haunts, and liberates me all at once.

What is this litmus between you and I,
neither of fire,
nor of water,
a breath escaping from the prison of my mind,
a gasp reverberating in syncopating time.

Finding you, finding me, finding you,
has become an obsession of improbable magnitude,
the lower I go,
the more sinful I am,
the stronger my urge,
the needier my purge.

Aching spine,
wretched and supine,
almost torn twine,
and all I can do is hold my eye lids open,
trying not to flinch as it snaps.

Oh the sap, oh the sap,
the strumming of a harp,
the belting of a flute,
paralysing, humiliating me,
to absolutes and mute.

There’s silent mourn,
guilt and yearn,
torture and patience,
dead ends at every turn,
but grief is worth this slow twist and churn,
cold knife, the only way to learn.

W.E.

we see more, that’s all

not-a-poetWhen people are busy filling in the gaps,
we are slow to move,
stare with savage intent,
at the interstices,
aching for meaning,
fondling with the fingers of our minds,
to sift through the Braille of what it all means.

Things are often in slow motion,
if not totally frozen,
if but long enough for us to suck the seed,
of meaning from it.
Be it a pencil,
or a cloud,
Animate or not,
breathing or lifeless,
we extract with biopsy precision,
enough to help you realise what you missed.
W.E.