River, tears, saint, jewels……

​Deep into a winter night,

from the river caused of my burning tears,

which flayed right and left,

a saint emerged- shielded well from the menace of my silent sobs.

And stayed him there, a lot of time,

carving the painting of my greed which my tears covered.
Night weared in,

dusk shaped hope, and future,

them those shining oranges. In spirit,

cried I a lot unto him.

Tears, them lava from volcano,

melted shields of him, too much and through,

in shades of orange, he consoled me and

in generosity, gifting me a bowl of beauty

“Cry more child,

and shed drops nowhere but in here.

Let alone the lusture of your tears

conjure themselves into the jewels of merry,

that they’ll become.”

Said him to me, while the river looked a dream, his presence too.
Then began the wait. 

Nights and days looked twins,

words like years and months evolved.

Long, long and still long the wait gone,

before folklores of this wait sprouted,

big bang and this miserable wait of mine became events of same time.

You know that time my reader.

Time none is sure about,

and so do my wait for a drop of tear.
With faded rays of hope, I still desire

for one more line of burning liquid,

flay my skin, soaking my breath with smell of fired flesh. I desire for that drop,

and have channeled for its way into

the bowl, already.

Tears had dried up, so had my fortune.

I cried never again.

Not in hyper-dismay nor in utterance of pitched anger.
Centuries of winter nights are long gone,

world has halted, far hidden from winters and summers, days and nights, and in

great agony, I still wait for

myself to cry,

to inbreed myself of the fortune

I never deserved.

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First song is fear

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Nights were frightening, most of them were,
murkiness crawling in every thoughts,
everything being shadow of itself,
soul-less.
She seeing me,
two eyes seeing two eyes, connected by nothing but a fearful gaze,
one identifying another, both forlorn.
She thought through me, and beheld fear.

The climactic lamp post on street, yonder
seldom faces like her’s gazing at more me’s,
glossed over on days,
wake up from slumber and
have been the resting harbor for eyes, I shut tight, fastening myself
from the fear creeping in.
A look again, the fear is truest.
There I see, amidst the sea of darkness,
a face, void of emotions, looking at me,
piercing through the fog painted window glass.

Ever since, I take fear to bed with me,
though times such flew draped in her face
is a spread – progression of
fear sprouted yesterday, bloomed yesterday, thrived yesterday,
living today and tomorrow, sprouting again tomorrow,
exponentially conquering the infinite me nobody read
and the point-me everbody understood.
Lamp post and her face, darkness, black and fear,
Why should sleep dare to fight a losing cause?

 

Years later, I forgot her face,
as sophisticated life ran away from immaturity,
and sleep turned a cave of disturbed fear,
darkness crying silently, burning me with her thoughts.
She was still inside,thinking,
my dreams were lamp posts, rain, lamp post in rain
and darkness, but not her eyes.
She’s still thinking through me,
uselessly revoking the fear to remember her face,
but her’s is a lost word, faded without traces.

Many nights have I-
since that lost childhood-
been clutching to them- useless prowess of
courage- holding onto it,
time after time, and again,
shuttering myself from the face I see at night, looking at me.
I can sense it, still precise and different from my own,
she thinking inside me,
searching through my apprehensions,
waiting for me to remember her face.

Days waited patiently,
for sun to run faster,
to turn the facade and help me again,
help me remember the face.
Of all world,
where her thoughts resides other than in me,
where she still searches steadily,
through a world no longer slower,
never letting go off my mind,
where her last resort blinks.

Night my reader,
is there anything as wasteful as a resource such as it
exists in this world or any other?
Helping everything but a tinge of rememberance.

I have long forgotten her face.

Am I ashamed? May be.
My fear is my disgrace. Childhood shamed me
with darkness, a girl, and her eyes.
Now maturity doing the
same, taunting with her face I buried in oblivion,
and she thinking inside me.
Only the best effort paints sheer darkness,
and the lamp post that exists, not anymore.

Childhood, Oh Childhood,
Why don’t you visit me tonight,
for once at this night and never again,
for her sake.
Vigour me with that fear so drowned in time,
Render me and plough my barren sleep for those fears
lift it back to sky,
and let me be afraid, but nothing else,
and in that darkness, help me Childhood,
to remember her face, I long forgot.

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I wish Time stops

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I wish time stops,
and reason with itself for some rest,
or a detour for the world to catch up.

To dislodge zeal swaying in present, scavenging the past,
docile and let away tickings stop
for a while and more.
Preposterous for myself and others,
to catechize for rewind of chronolgy,
for it may hike the turmoil of identities
myself was and myself is.

Scared and tensed to do a repeat,
inasmuch abide the sole inference,
I don’t want time and tide to flew back.

So hither I pray,
plus pledge upon myself as a droplet
of sand pinned to oblivion of hourglass,
that this downfall had ebbed away.

In sea of time disguised as fanatic delirium, under stormy starless night,
tied to wheel of present,
lay myself entreating versus pounding waves of moments next.

Had only the fierceness of time draped as waves and thunders broke off,
jump unto the silent blackness of sea myself and escape from truth prisoning to future. I wish, for reasons surplus, time had stopped once and forever.

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Sky is a farce

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Time has been faltering, seconds dusted
in sheer aroma of breaths.
“Fly, fly,” said the sky,
“Carry you in my strength, sure I will”

If I had believed, in the invisibility,
Should I be flying now,
Through orange horizon
of shedding sunset,
forgetting the world
and it’s small passage between life and death.

“Calm, and believe. let yourself fly,
Living is a frivolous practice if not flying”
Said it again.
Imperative urge to obey,
but did I fly?

Ask me no more about flying.
I remember less of the question,
sticking to the space where no answer finds a question.
I am not flying, though sky is persistent.
Tell me, how am I to believe
an invisibility, itself claims to be blue in shade.

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Bury me there

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Bury me there,
In times so Persian, and smells so Painting
Let me reborn with with Shekure,
and Black, the epitome of love,
if such exists in this world or any.
Say them as red and blue,
smelling of paints and smelling of stories
Let me live with them.

Love, said much more about it.
Believe them true,
But then dream never of being buried there.
Between the lines.
That’s strange place for
you to live your death.

But, bury me there.
Or don’t let me die, ever.

(For the beautiful people who have read ‘My name is red’)

I don’t know about waiting

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Apparently it is easier,
if used words are clear, and simple.
Lines are the search of my wait,
deliberately made readable,
in case you could help
me, and find what I am waiting.

Evenings suddenly becomes intimidating.
Darkness, I do enjoy, not fear.
But evening with shadows in puberty
asks about my wait.
My progress into the matter.
Matter? I learnt it is weight and space.
Nothing concerns me,
My wait is weightless and vacuum.

Say, I don’t know about my waiting.
True that, I don’t. Not even sure,
I am waiting.

Evenings are chasing, again before
another again begins.
I fake myself saying my waiting is
for a skill that could define me,
or an idea none said before.

Believe me, my wait is boring,
as it sounds to you.
Boring, and never time consuming.
The wait slow the ticks, sixty seconds is uninteresting.
Boring, and slow, and tasteless.
Long as unknown roads,
dull and disguised in harmless cruelty.
Boring, and dream-like.

My wait is something I don’t know.

Days ago, I Lost my Dog

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I lost my dog.
Passed have three choleric
and nomadic days,
together with restless, starless
and dreamless nights,
since my globes feasted the sight
of my precious.Likewise,
lost were periods
of breakfasts upon his bland barks,
sleep tangled to sleepless marks,
and prayers roped to his softness
in my toes.
Aye reader, Seen you tither he went?

Black, says people his color is,
rbbing the warmth of every eyeful,
and his honest eyes with same.
How he came of color such?
Wasn’t born so, Sure I am,
but maybe because of me?

Adorable.Amiable.Affable.
Words had leaked the premium miser tongues.
But Had he ever been so?
Before we knotted each other?
No, guess I. It was me.
Reader again, pursing eyes through lines,
look around and along,
he might be left or right to you.

Now lost is my dog and so is me.
What had If lost its identity too?
Barks. Beauty. Blackness.
How am I to spot it across the street?

Furthermore, Am I missing a point?
I missed the dog or he do me?
What if I ad been bestowed
of all greatness poetrised above
for that little of little creature,
and not the way around?
It dwells on certainity, I lost
those the moment my dog lost me.
With myself changed,
How will it run to me across the streets?

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