Change.

The New Year dawns in approximately 3 hours and 15 minutes. The turn of the decade. A beginning to a relatively new era. And what have we to show for it?

Wars won. Nations lost.

Victory gained. Sanctity sacrificed.

Babies born. Countless dead.

Will we measure this year in the shreds of paper that fatten our wallets and the territories conquered by armed forces? Or will we measure it by friendships made, friendships strengthened and the courage shown in times of despair?

Will we remember who threw the most pulsing party or whose gifts were the most extravagant and generous? Or will we remember those who begged for our mercy and assistance, those whose homelands were ravaged by shells and bullets?

Will we remember the tears and moments of self pity we wasted, the times we weakened and cracked refusing to believe in things getting better? Or will we remember the laughs and smiles shared with those who brought joy to our lives and the beacon of hope that shone in our hears in the growing darkness?

What is important is that we don't change what we believe in - the truth, the righteous path ; to never give up in the pursuit of freedom. To give to others, even if we have nothing to give. And to always believe.

Because tomorrow's always a new beginning.

Age.

I've been waiting in the shadows all my time

Perfection.

What makes a human being is the imperfections.
Yet, there is no crime in a perfect human being.
Especially one such as He, who is worth of being named the God of Perfection.

His skin, so bathed in the tones of ivory and yet possess a gilded hue of gold, bestowed upon Him by the sun, a pigmented blessing. Every inch of the sacred robe, flawless. Unscarred by the blemishes of sin and evil, simply envied by multitudes, recoiling in shame in the presence of such unstained faultlessness.
Every contour line of His body, defined to perfection. Not a single ridge or valley goes unnoticed by the watchful eyes of a passionate observer. Every inch, be it bathed in light or veiled in darkness, a marvel of creation. God really was showing off when he made this one.
Literally.
His hair, dark shades of raven black that seem to compliment his visage, whatever way the wind blows them. Be they in existence, or completely lost. Be they on his head, or accentuating the already heavily defined line of his strong jaw.
And his eyes. Playing tricks with your mind before they lash out their venomous tendrils and pull you down. Tornadoes of darkness that spiral down into the depths of his very soul, dragging in the unsuspecting victim who made the mistake of glancing into them for too long. Deadly predators, his eyes. One look could leave you melting, gasping for air, and the particularly faint hearted might even be struck dead by the overwhelming power of this lethal weaponry.
Curse every woman who ever kissed his lips. Not only that she was in contact with the very soul of this perfect being but because He, in all His glory, saw her worthy of such affection. Like being handpicked by the most royal of princes to be his queen. Such honour. And yet, there do exist a sinful few who turned away his hand and rejected his love. Ostracize them, the infidels. To turn away one of such esteem is like turning down a coveted prize that so many others long for. It is sacrilege.

We may gaze upon such perfection, yet it is never to be ours.

Family Portrait

At first glance, it all seems like one beautiful, detailed design.  
Look closer, you’ll see that it’s far more intricate than just that.

Every twirl is an illusion. Illusions of peace, love and an end to enmity. As they spiral further into themselves, everything is lost. Meaning, definition and lastly, the essence of what once was. A time of laughter that with the screams and cries of torn women was turned into an age of darkness and weeping. Every seemingly straight line bears the beginning of many, almost invisible, cracks. The flowers are blooming in majesty, their petals rising to the sun. Yet their centers are a web of lies and lives, intersecting, intertwining and eventually collapsing on each other. Branches, so alike, yet so different. So different that they can never meet without causing the ground around them to shake.
And even as specks of what may be hope seem to form, they begin to shrink, ultimately disappearing.

She doesn’t look at my face, yet she pours out the tears of her mother, the cries of her little sisters and her father’s screams into the palm of my hand. Her hand does not waver as she paints her family portrait, connecting everything and everyone together with swift movements of her wrist. Her life now connects with mine, as the dark substance stains my already impure skin, seeping into the microscopic nooks and crevices that lay etched into my skin.

As I walk away, the picture begins to dry and suddenly everything is clear. Why her mother weeps at night after her father thrashes her mercilessly. Why her little sister is so afraid to speak. Why she herself cannot look at her father without writhing in shame and guilt. I do not see the tears forming in her eyes, yet they are there, like the minute details commonly overlooked in every picture. She sits there, her face shrouded in darkness, her eyes the only passages to her soul. And they too are misted over.

I look down and watch as everything starts to fall apart.

Tears in Heaven

The rain pours down, battering the cold glass on her bedroom window. A slowly dying candle illuminates her tired face as she sits by the glass, watching the torrents. A draught sweeps through her abode of solitude, raising goose bumps on her frail arms. 
She is beautiful. He used to tell her that. That among many other things; he loved her, he’d never leave her, he couldn’t live without her. Words that, at the time, made her spirit soar like an eagle in the sky. Now, they lay fragmented beneath her feet. Empty words, emptier promises. People always leave.
She lost hope a long time ago. Life is kind to the sinners and devils of the world and they run free, delighting in their trickery and evil ways. Sadly, it is always the pure souls like her who are left behind, battered and bruised. 
She has hidden all her pain with easy. Smile after smile, laugh after laugh and day after day survived in a masquerade of secrecy shield the horror of what actually tears her soul to shreds. With its taunting face and evil eyes, its violent predators lurking in the day and night, waiting to plunge their claws into the flesh of the defenceless who, being as gentle as they are, do not fight back. 
She watches as the rain continues to beat down, thoughts of loves lost and heartache found reverberate around her head like static feedback. The candle, the only source of light in the room, is down to the last inches of its life. The wind whispers through and with a small breath, extinguishes the candle and the one sliver of hope that held her soul together. 
She breaks. Weeping in sorrow as the backlog of emotions suppressed surge through her body, racking it with spasms of bitter sadness. A tear for every lie, a cry for every betrayal. She lets it all out, purging her heart of every wound that she bandaged and every tear that she fixed. In that little room, the sobs echo and dissipate into the air, heavy with sadness. No one but the ragdoll on the floor next to her knows she ever cried, her tears falling onto the doll’s perpetually happy face, making it seem as if it was crying too. 
And yet, as always, she isn’t heard. 
The little tears flow silently; drowned, by the sound of the rain.

Her beauty and the lamplight overthrew you.