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Scarlet threads
Suiciding over regal rouged lips,
A luster shred indulgently upon your words,
Gracious coiffures dressing me
Only to undress twilight
Over a union of naked bonds.
Let this proclaim a drunk poet
Bound at last
To an increasing breath
Curved over your lips,
Suffocated by your hands,
Engraved into my warm flesh.





(c) A Hannan

The Heart of a Poet

Dried leaves,
Autumns township
Kindled by a night of prayer,
In his own shade
The seared breast
Laced with desires spine,
The Poet’s golden horn swoons,
Spreading its wings
Turning in, a silenced pedestal
Fragranced with bouquets
Of invading beauty
Until, the heart opens it
And we all follow…



(c) A Hannan

Stories of a Madman



I happened upon a flower I did not recognise,
Its shadow imprinted with the suns height,
Admonitions, a gentle nostalgic breeze raising shoulders,
Mastering curls already tussled, my lips
Arguing with themselves as I came back to me.


I closed my eyes and picked a random flower with a blind hand,
Tempted, its colour brushed across the sky.
I watched a poet once press the scent beside his heart
Where it proceeded to advance analogies of death.
All essence seeks love. When we reach it, robes fall off,
The petal dies. There is nothing so lovely at all.


I want this union. Life slipping to forever, resurrecting an uninhabited us.
I watch birds; they know the moment to fly.
I listen to the many fallen leaves; they know when to sing with the wind.
I learned from the madman who came to bury me;
He told me it was time to meet you.


I will meet you there in the garden at sunrise. You already know the way.



(c) A Hannan

Away with Words

Shattering your night with wine soaked wings

My eye, a lone star ceiling a funeral, one

Beautiful unended union of arms

Falling into arms, falling to implore us

To where lust shredded, lingers.


I speak of union. What does this mean?

Imagine your rose falling into my arms,

Those arms falling to your Beloved,

Laughter’s treasure caressing no end.


O! How I wish I could exile my tongue, merely taking you home.

(c) A Hannan

The Art of Subtlety

It is not a surprise that you see at all!

All poets are in love!

You see beauty, and we are surprised.

As I write this, your Beloved waits

Where you hold the unveiled,

Where we all wait for love,

Yet we, excluding you, do not know how

To shiver from a dizzy kiss in the arms of love.

You see your Beloved’s hand on a golden shore

Wreathed in jasmine, bathed in moonlight,

And we, we keep our wings in your hand

Learning your subtlety.

(c) A Hannan