Monologue


The worn waves have receded
on time of her own
The ocean seemingly dead
as I laid down alone
The moon magnificently shone
above the quiet shores
Peace once again borne
like an angel from a whore
Solitude for a torrid soul
searching for some sand
A wanderer in a world alone
touched by her gentle sense
So contend her darkness mystified
So subtle her quietness embraced
slumbering seductively in her delight
as my end gathered in pace
The worn waves have receded
on time of her own
the ocean seemingly dead
as I laid down alone
The breath of her bruising breeze
stabbed my shivering soul
obliterating the temporal peace
with her cruel treacherous cold
Penetrating a foolish flesh
Piercing a senseless hope
Leaving me to a lonely rest
And to my final abode
The stars slowly vanished
In depth of her darkness
She left me in her malice
Of a captivating curse
Her retreating smile
Her slicing silence
Demeaned all my cries
Into a mere existence
The worn waves have receded
on time of her own
the ocean seemingly dead
as I am laid down alone
Feroz Bessir
7 April 2010


© 2010 Feroz Bessir All Rights Reserved

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The woods were empty
But you were always there
Observing my reality
In your hidden lair

Buried away from earthly eyes
You enmeshed within the woods
In a deceiving disguise
And as in many looks
And many sigh
You embraced my presence
And my silent cries
Yet in your indiscretion
You failed to see
My wayward presence
In your Keele trees
There you were
In an unwavering sign
Discerning their thoughtless whims
And their intoxicated minds
Ancient you seemed
In your bodily truth
Golden and green
And glittering smooth
Perched on the bushes
Calm in your stare
In deep astuteness
The face you shared

I sense your reality a long time before
when the lakes were icy and pure
Lost in your woods in wintry cold
I was guided back by a indiscernible hold
The woods were empty
But I was always there
Embracing your trees
And totally aware

Feroz Bessir
15 May 2009


© 2009 Feroz Bessir All Rights Reserved

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Learn to be a Poet












Ode to a Ghost

for what is left of a troubled soul
but his self in a nebulous form
centuries may give rise of tales of old
but the world remains his only home




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