I wish Time stops

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.



Sky is a farce


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.


Bury me there


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’)