My place in the sun





























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FOR THE GIRL FROM QATIF

Is justice seen to be fair, her scales balanced equitable; when judges dont seem to care, about that which is reputable. Appointed by royal decree, short of only a sceptre to reign, perpertrators liberally set free, victims penalised to even greater pain. That she was raped seven times, her friend suffered assault; the judges heaped other crimes, saying she was at fault; her lawyer was disbarred, doing his duty to defend, in a court system marred, by the way judges choose to bend. A world thats greedy for oil, elects to watch in silence, ignoring the disgusted recoil, at this blatant support of violence. Six months in jail to be spent, the lashes have been doubled, they say for her to repent, without even being troubled. Only one question, If the girl from Qatif, was your daughter judge would your ruling still hold water.
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HIGHWAY MINISTRY

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AFTER THE CRASH

Taking dreams off the shelf, wiping off the settled dust repairing wounded parts of myself; disillusion baking a hard crust; an armour of protection, sealing blocking my trust. Looking at old stillborn dreams, scars not only renewing pain, also the zest of lifestreams the vibrance of being born again releasing pent up inner screams numbed by shackled restrain. Marking off different stages pivotal points clear and stark, some clouded by varying ages, others half forgotten in the dark, a few scribbled on a page, delicately folded into a bookmark. From brimming bubbling success, to stumbling bumbling tripping failure, all parts are more or less that which helps me to endure, when all seems a random mess in a discordant overture.
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