Two roads
Unknown previously

Clueless pathways
Both leave me stranded

One leads to false hope
Other leaves the true hope

I can feel it slowly
I am left

In either side
Deserted

which one was the one that the
Witch made into a frog "Riibbbittt"
which frog is your husband?

Witch could you please use
which ever spell you used to
Witch your curse upon...

which frog will slimy lips kiss,
Witch did laugh as kisses did kiss
which one please the wife did ask..

Witch looked as tears did fall,
which one do you love was asked?
Witch looked at her emotions..

Which one is ugly but has beauty within?
Witch looked at her eyes pondering downwards.
Which one was chosen? a kiss did show.

Witch smiled as smoke collected around all,
Which kiss saw beneath, a man now stood
Witch did smile, love is beneath the many layers

Witch taught a lesson of which we must all learn,
Which is that we must look beneath to find love..

No halfway's mark me     as full or empty
when a drop of hope     can change someone's life.

Puppet, puppet,
dance to my whim.
Squirm under string,
and bend to my will.

Puppet, puppet,
hear my call.
Listen only to my word,
and never anything more.

Puppet, puppet,
ever breaking.
Your strings will snap,
and you will fall.

Puppet, puppet,
where have you gone?
Who am I
without my marionette?

Puppeteer, puppeteer,
where did you
get your strings?
who do you dance for?

I am at crossroads and do not know which way to go
My near and dear lead me to bog just to be drowned
They know me and want me to go through a big blow
For me this is the way they they found like a hound

They do not want me to survive hence they but attack
I have my own rules of the game to be fair and honest
If I am fully convinced then I will in my defense, sack  
I will return the assault in the same coin to make dust

My sincerity will lead me to the path, clear and clean
I know from birth till death I remain with them at war
They can not change because they are meanest of mean
They will remain in darkness while I will be north star

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Dear,

A lot has changed in the last year and a half
since the day God decided to scoop you up from our ember-warm hometown
and swallow you whole about sixty years earlier than any of us would have ever prayed for.
We would have all given up our one gold-embellished chance to write the center-spread
ecstatically collected our own blood and sweat and knuckles met with writers-cramps
if that meant watching wrinkles sprout permanently across your forehead
roots of trees burying themselves into the grooves of your smile lines.
We would have sacrificed all that hard-earned pain
that stain issues one through four
and that old putrid-beige colored couch
that we hated so much but clandestinely found comfort in leaning our heavy heads on still
in the crook of its homely, familiar shoulder
thinking that we were Shakespeare's apprentices
through fluttering eyelids
creating clusters of words that had to have been New York Times worthy—we were sure
although we knew the furthest we could really go is the furthest your laugh could carry across a room
and that's still pretty far—we could all spit shake and swear—
because I can still hear it sometimes all the way down here
where each tendon in my body is capable of feeling solidity
where I am haunted by uhtceare, wondering if you're too cold
where halos don't exist outside of dreams
not even when the sun is a cracked egg and dripping onto tables, the roofs of cars
not even then is anything brighter than the whites of your lively eyes
and I think you'd like to know that we're still thinking about you
that I can't think about white anymore without thinking about the vulgarity of bathtubs
and your hate for poems that include contractions—I'm sorry I've let you down
but I think you'd like to know that I've finally stopped having nightmares
and even the thinnest-skinned of us all, you know which one,
has been able to convince himself that the embrace of the Earth
just isn't the place for you anymore
that you've already outgrown all of us at fifteen-years-old
and we're sorry for not believing sooner that poetry can save the world.