Through the glass she looked

She was the innocent child thrown out to the wolves and learnt to crave his knife to lead the pack instead. Adventure was her snowflake that beckoned her to come out and play. Through the looking glass at the end of the tunnel she stood; taking her breath away was the last thing on his mind. She was never his or her own. She belonged to something far too unknown. She detested recycled stories of boy-meets-girl. Yet, she got entangled in his dream catcher and all she could do was stare. Weak men ran away from her cause they lacked the strength to fix the broken. He was a fixer and knew exactly how many and where the stitches go!


The Du’a of A Woman

Every evening at the appointed hour after the golden sun is engulfed by the vast ocean, the marble minaret echoes carrying the call to prayer in the summer breeze. The shining domes pointing their fingers to the sky, open up reflecting the vaults of heaven singing melodies of God’s names. The god-fearing and the god-trusting all assemble as one, through the pillars of marble cravings peace enters their souls. Inscriptions in ornate calligraphy decorate the walls inside out, it’s like fuelling your spirit with the necessary food and water it needs without a grain of doubt. You come here to strengthen your faith, you go to ask for forgiveness, some come to test the waters while other pray to give up the hate.

Builders of this beautiful mosque knew where they drew inspiration from; and they made her static in a timeless dimension. She never asked for the love of the sun, nor the calmness of the moon light, she didn’t wish on the shooting stars nor complained to the unfair heavily skies. She took every pain and tear from the haters who kept her awake every night. But when she did raise her hands up to her prayer, what do you think she asked for? Through every single day she raised her hands to the direction of the sun and prayed: For her name to be taken with the one who gave her breath, the du’a in the air was the only one who knew how much she cared.

Destruction to a Point of Madness

She loves him best in May, June and July, when his sun kissed melanin skin glistens like bronze paint stuck in a can of gold. He mesmerises the eyes that trusts its gaze upon him demanding it’s undivided attention. Exhausted with the obsession she has developed, she rests her chin into the cavity of his shoulder blades. Their feverish breathe intoxicates the humid air leaving it drunk by the depths created by their eyes. She swore by the crescent moon, it’s the word of God against hers. Like a cast-iron bell that rings between heaven and hell, her flawless diamond eyes hummed echoes of sighs. He listens to a million lies, watching her burn in the lines of fireflies with his love frozen in her eyes. As if the heat wasn’t enough, she burned through the summer of May, June and July; tracing a thousand golden streaks with elements of water and fire. In the holy month of Ramadan he was the crescent moon that blanketed her as she lit the skies like fireworks during Diwali. Watching his face, she knew she would do it a thousand times over and over again until destruction did not feel like madness.