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  • _transient 9w

    Biding Time

    I internalized silence,
    perched on scoffing nightmares
    while sleep was still permeable.
    None know what sound
    mornings will open up to.

    Abstract poetic dawns
    exploit forgetfulness,
    debate with night
    on naked gambit
    of shiny rues.

    Ironical awakening
    to stillness,
    an illusion of transit,
    like a distant dream,
    waving back.

    I'm reposed
    for the world to unwind
    its causal factors,
    akin to
    my being.


  • _transient 10w

    @miraquill - Thankyou for EC ��

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    Laugh all you can
    This night is pan dead
    The leaves rustle and rub
    On graves they fall and club
    A friction pervades in the breeze

    No one hears no one
    even though the moon screeches
    in the so-called celebration of love.
    Know that it's been faltered
    on the verge of a fall

    To save yourself
    from this cycle
    of waning and bloom
    will you draw the curtains
    Or will you caress the gloom?

    Laugh all you can
    till the moon symbolises you
    for when the morning grows
    you'd be defeated
    in your own wars.


  • _transient 12w

    And then there are some days when we are reminded of the blatant disguises we are. We sleep embracing the thought of never looking at ourselves again.

    Ofcourse we are forgetful and it's not as black and white, so we play with words and confide in nothing.

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    So, you better dress in loss
    and call that fading moon, your lover
    cause I hear they compare pains
    and only if your suffering outweighs theirs
    is when you earn a smile.

    Laying out confessions on a sheet
    not knowing what color guilt is,
    leaves unfilled spaces
    in the canvas of righteousness.
    Even if you're sorry for the misspelled day,
    you might still be mimicking
    another reflection of night.

    There's an ugliness to this perfection
    of edgy dramas
    where we catch the visceral vibes
    through subverted empathy
    and tragedy is like the comedy
    we couldn't laugh at.


  • _transient 13w

    I am trying to write here frequently.


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    When everyone was writing
    letters to the sky,
    I felt restlessly passive.
    Am I suppose to feel too?
    Do I overlook the obvious?
    Later that day,
    I read all the letters one by one,
    tried my best to relate
    but words kept on entwining
    into a non-native something.

    I remember
    getting attached to brittle memories
    that resurfaced on a lazy night
    when dream was still next door,
    only unacquainted.
    Nostalgia has often tricked people
    into believing.
    I too have been ensnared
    in one such loop.

    I think
    the sky mirrors my eyes
    I see me from the past,
    completely aware
    that this image won't last.
    And writing to the old me
    would be like a blasting gratification
    for retaining a naive outcast.


  • _transient 13w

    I don't think this has much meaning. Yet I had to say it.

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    Contingent Patterns

    Draped in a silken veil of tomorrow, I used to draw plaids on the sky above me. This continued for a fortnight till I no longer liked the covert affair of my dark eyes with coincidental coherence. Sometimes we go too far for the sake of decoding an otherwise beautiful obscurity.

    The other day when a good human pointed at the sinking sun, I ignored his moment of epiphany as I cherished the solemnity of the devouring sea. The waves were simply a touch-and-go like my attention span while I made a conscious effort to look around for a pair of eyes that had the same gravitas as the stillness of this infant night. Maybe I was trying to find another pattern.

    I no longer entertain questions that want definitions in order to cast categories. Some say I avoid conversations and to an extent people. I thought about it and saw a pattern of good riddance.

    As I write this, I realise the ink may be drying out but I want this figment to not be my imagination but a nonsensical conformation.


  • _transient 14w

    Let's call it integrity.

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    Behold the thought
    that neverminds an eye roll.
    Unlike dreams it never asks of you
    an illicit desperation
    or a snap back with a drum roll.

    It just sits cross-legged
    giving base to blatant standpoints
    when the questions fail to ask
    revenant misfortunes
    why they hold you a mirror.

    Mindlessly self-effacing
    this relaxed portrayal
    of a columnist who creates a section
    and fills it in ink
    of neutral tone.


  • _transient 15w


    When I looked in the eyes of a night, it glared back at me. For a moment I was dazzled too. Thinking is inevitable even to benumbed devices, so I make no attempts to premeditate about my choices.

    There's an unclaimed silence. Even the dead are asleep. I blink two times for every single breath. A nightbird hoots at a distance to break this chain of stillness but who wants to unleash their fears and face the noise.

    You hold my hands and ask if I fear all the darkness and I don't know because much of it feels my own. I know I can light up with an elusive smile that would survive for a while. Instead, I blink once this time and you assume diffidence.

    I relish this moment where nothing connects yet a picture is complete. It's like a halftone.


  • _transient 15w

    @miraquill - Thanks for EC ��

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    Cause troubles had no gateway
    Cause sense had no takers
    Cause colors had no light on its own
    We abandoned the makers

    If it all comes down to individuals
    why the coexistence paradigms.
    Where do we spill
    And what do we gather

    I have questions
    and I don't look forward to answers
    that are citations
    of just the benchmarks.

    Telling the truth alone
    is not acceptable anymore
    for it can't be substantiated
    with our dual visions.


  • _transient 16w


    Fluorescent sheets
    Dabbed icy smiles
    Chaffered verse
    Black or white
    Skin and water

    Water you say is colourless
    Skin, just a shade.
    The story confounded
    in loud fonts.

    Yet again,
    Chasing tipsy flies,
    Perching on overdone bars,
    Counting syllables,
    Serenading sweet lies.


  • _transient 16w


    @writersnetwork - Thanks for the repost��

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    Under the mask of pseudonyms,
    I once was a derivative traveler
    who had been to lands abound
    yet failed to see the worth
    of a true ground.

    Colors blocked my vision
    with an obtuse viewpoint.
    Oceans that I crossed,
    salt that my skin soaked
    made me bloated with opinions.

    I still am
    a rehash of my own binary
    looking for solidarity
    while traveling
    by my unprejudiced self.

    It is tricky
    as the light's a bit too reflective
    for my briskly polished shoes
    and the glass I look through
    sometimes lacks a prelude.