Fusion.

Should I compare you to a summer’s breeze?
Even though you’re more of a temperate storm.
Or maybe to the sweet spring in which asthmatics wheeze?
But you may be the autumn wind that tears the leaves off from the trees so that new ones may be born.
May I compare you to the eye opening painful drought,
But you may be the cold wet rains giving a few some or the other reason to complain about.
Or the beautiful cold winter with its snowcapped peaks and frost.
I may have run out of seasons to describe you, but without you, I’m truly lost.

Taha Sheerazi

The Pirate.

Standing on the prow,
With a crease on his brow,
With a cutlass in his hand,
Behind him follows his loyal band.
Conquering the waves he sails the seas,
With his entire crew sporting goatees,
He keeps a weathered eye on the horizon,
And its not something you’d read from a book by Bill Bryson.
Hard to starboard! Hard to port!
He’d take control of any kind of boat.
And he takes his loot, locks it in his boot,
And leaves the victims in total cahoots.

Taha Sheerazi