Listen to the bells,
kosher or pretended
it doesn’t matter.

In moments sowing
naughts and reaping
unbridled trivia of
boredom,
and them
crawling inside us
crushing our
sponge of existence,
in times as such
were words come short,
listen to the bells
and wait for nothing else.

It may or

may alone save you.

Advertisements

Forgotten faces

Where should I look for
the forgotten faces?
Less I know about the berth of sunken disclosures,
wherein the darkness of dread, they wait for
a lost cause, still.
Their wait has been a habit for those faces,
the unending thread of hope
in the queue to be remembered again.
Their wait is an iota of sanguine stupidity,
dying slowly with each passing moment,
with them knowing lesser of it.

I want to find them,
and illustrate them back on my mind
like the heroes they were.
But where should I look for
the forgotten faces.

First song is fear

57ac5c11ec7ff54dd12a501e59aefc43---point-perspective-drawing-perspective-art

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.

signature

I don’t know about waiting

image

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

image

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?

image

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.

wpid-913ba30275a85425cb8cffa46dbf9e0e.png

Ripples of Love

image

Shimmering full moon proliferates
itself unto mix of hushed breeze,
was cause of which,
silent ripples induced in my lake.
Unknown of reason for reasons,
made me think of her,
these very ripples.

Pray luck,
for it incepts from nil,
alike the smile sprouts in her.

Pray luck,
for it convulges to infinity,
matched to love divined in her.

Ripples spanning, it is everywhere.
In words left unspoken
later died tangled to tongue.
In sights she conferred,
illuminating the selfsame as
moon does to lake, tonight.
In love I offered,
or, she seized,
of inside hidden is a
million more loves,
replicating otherselves,
furthermore reflecting the
galaxy of replicas,
and kindred of those in lakes, never ending.

image