Stories dried

There were days, I itched to be a writer.

Ample were those times, 

but not what ensued.

With millions of stories dying and living,

indistinguishable and vaugue,

with no succint meaning to the ingenious fire,

you know how irksome to pen down a prose?

Those were the days, 

creativity flung around in every breath,

when my slow steps, an affinity to my own scribbles,

pen was a sword of flair, inked in sea of thoughts.

Those were the nights,

with meanings withered after each cluster of thoughts, 

conquering the levels above vague,

still mine was the story and every

laughs, and sighs, and cries in it.

Dawns followed were war-grounds,

of emotions and questioning of the garbage I wrote the day before.

Unreliable of what’s, and what-nots, and what-ifs to follow,

life was an extension of my own stories.

Stories have faded, 

with ink drying up, erasing the euphoria which was praised,

and the hardships that was acknowledged,

my stories are less remembered, ever lesser cherished.

Hard it is, to be a writer.


I wish Time stops

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Image courtesy: fineartamerica.com

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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Read Again

book of books

 

 

A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.

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