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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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’)