Abdul Wahab


>>>Blooming Love


It is the power of you that you love somebody
You know, in it embedded too much latent energy
By which you can take sweet revenge of all hates
Without cloud from above precipitates like dew
And from all around perpetuates upon you
But these drops of dislikes are blessings, boons in disguise
Secretly they turn into a piece of precious diamond
As they clearly reflect the fine light of recognition
Of the change you bring upon, in and out, by blooming beauty
Without giving love a name or any definition
All are called out and invitations are sent to all sorts of bees
Like a flower without any discrimination.

Submitted: Saturday, January 11, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, January 14, 2014

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Comments about this poem (>>>Blooming Love by Abdul Wahab )

  • Silver Star - 3,251 Points Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar (1/12/2014 2:34:00 AM)

    the first line itself is fantastic. (Report) Reply

  • Bronze Star - 2,675 Points Wahab Abdul (1/11/2014 10:32:00 PM)

    Jeff Cannon ___on my poem - - - - - - ''BLOOMING LOVE'' - - - ah, that love could over come the grid that slices, separates, tears the us apart from each other, puts splinters in our hands, rocks in our eyes, so many declensions manufactured by the conqueror, even when it's steel soul boot is gone, its shadow presses down the grid sharp, barbed toothed stabs impale the heart/ feeling lobotomized, erases our flesh, twists us into vaporous creatures who speak the language of fangs, leap to possess as the one is possessed, feast till nothing's left but the great kill, the one that sucks bodies into anguished flames and the grand wrestling begins between blood and computerized brain thought that sizzles dead when only a drop of the red wine spills over its plastic casement, metallic flesh/ ah that those lips punched into asphalt streets could heal and kiss again beauty dangling black, swollen blue, whispering the answer to the eternal riddle, the one Alexander tried to find by cheating, just hacking the knot, hacking so much, he chopped away the answer, the one the wind scooped up in her gentle fingers, carried on her breathe, carries still, the one, when night turns deep silent, softly whispers, love... love... my lost children... love... is the... answer... - Well, don't know where that came came from, but thanks for opening that door Abdul Wahab, with your poem (Report) Reply

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