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  • k_kshitij 2w

    Am I back?

    Don't know....

    Just needed to let this flow....

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    TWO STRANG'ERRS'

    Who were we?
    Two strangers.

    Your soul - cloud brimming convectional rain,
    Mine - a peacock caged in translucent glass pen.
    You decided to disembark from your supernal trajectories,
    Drenching my skin, slowly slithering through the minute slit over glass surface.

    Enticing me to break all the glass ceilings that grappled,
    Venture out in the mellifluous rain -
    And I, pecking the glass enough to break down all the shackles
    Flew out to drown in your rain,
    Squawking merrily in joy of rain, of unison.

    But you, were just a cloud:
    Transient!
    Moving away where the winds carried;
    Showering the waters
    Dampening yet another peacock-
    Whose feathers more pretty,
    Whose dance more merry,
    Whose squawks more attuned to your patters.

    And I, an unsure peacock.
    Whether to wait for the winds to change direction,
    Summer clouds- Are they meant to stay?
    Or re-build a glass pen, this time impenetrable-
    So that not even a drop might enter.

    Who were we?
    (Convincing Self)

    Two STRANG'ERRS'.

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 42w

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

    You scratch my back, and I scratch yours.

    This ain't me.

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    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 42w

    #promise

    hai kaun jis se ki vaada ḳhatā nahīñ hotā , magar kisī kā irāda ḳhatā nahīñ hotā

    - Ashar Hashmiji

    ...........................................................................

    Promise Premise

    A promise of love, I gave, I keep;
    Stationary I remain, although you skip-
    All I did, was failed to caution,
    All you believed, one false notion.

    Moon-like love, perceived in phases,
    One murky night, was counted ages.
    No blame on you- seeing all through naked eyes,
    For failed promises, ain't responsible murky skies!?

    ©k_kshitij

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    Promise Premise

    Moon-like love, perceived in phases,
    One murky night, was counted ages.

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 42w

    Life is too short to let your birth-gifted uniqueness evanesce.

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 44w

    The Act of the Dead

    Night after night
    She first scatters flowers
    Then herself on the bed,
    The vision-barred snake
    Now awakens: Hissing!
    Her body akin to a pungi
    Of a snake-charmer
    Hypnotizing with lust-
    This limb-less creature,
    That till the time music plays on
    Or all the venom that there is
    Gets spilled out
    Does all the act
    As directed by her,
    Blindly, faithfully
    Hissing futilely inside
    A dead flower...
    They all watch this 'Tamasha',
    Clap and laugh,
    The Charmer and the snake
    Feeding from it -
    Their failures,
    Their incompetencies....
    But they know-
    all those spectators
    Are nothing more than
    Half-Dead humans,
    Cherishing that all they have
    Is failed lesser than someone else.


    (P.C. -
    https://www.artstation.com/artwork/qAY3nz: Art by Maya Kern)

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    The Act of the Dead

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 44w

    Come- perish- son

    I keep rummaging, searching incessantly -
    Making further mess of my snake-pit wardrobe,
    Looking for that fallen eye-lash:
    The one that will fulfill my wish, no one's granting.

    I hear laughs, a mockery of my state,
    The voices sound familiar, I look around - all faces known,
    Showcasing their perfectly arranged wardrobes:
    Some placing their belongings in accurately fitting luggages.

    They call me slow, reckless, unportentous,
    In response to which I scatter my stuff even more,
    I wonder if it's my vulnerable imperfections that make them look perfect;
    Or their pretentious perfection making me the rebel, I've become?

    Why is it that we have to label everyone-
    Put them in boxes, black or white?
    And judging by the qualities itself - weren't Ravana more virtuous a person?
    But we chose convenience, we chose conformity -

    All we have known is tradition, a lineage gifted for all to glide through,
    And when a lamb from the herd tries to wander, there's a shepherd behind,
    Who bulldozes it to follow the line, showing his stick,
    While the lamb that persistently refuses to follow, aint found in the mix anymore.

    ©k_kshitij

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    Come- perish- son

    I wonder if it's my vulnerable imperfections make them look perfect;

    Or their pretentious perfection makes me the rebel, I've become?

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 45w

    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    #stranded

    Cast-Away


    I always wondered what it would feel like having drugs? The mysticism around it and it's effect always made me curious. The so-called being a "Good Boy" never allowed me to cross that Laxman-Rekha I had drawn for myself (Not yet at least).

    Yet, the fate had it to pit me up against occultism - unarmed, vulnerable. The name given to this 'love', a (brief) phase when one feels like their body is in a permanent state of levitation, defying all the rules of gravitational force, when even the spouting by 'the one' feeling like listening to symphony, while the breeze is perennially perfumed with the nectar of lavenders and lilies. A sip of plain water dripping down from the throat gushes in to the blood like the Scottish legacy. All the four dimensions are experienced.

    //Can I still plead about my innocence, or the deer allured me akin to Maa Sita to cross the Laxman-Rekha?//

    But as they say, everything that has a beginning comes with an end. And I always feared beginning contemplating about the end. But, life had it - it had decided the course for me, all I had to do was follow the footsteps it already imprinted. Naive, unaware, I kept following until I crashed on to a stranded Island. Screaming, Screeching out of pain, agony - loud enough to reach the sky, but not enough to reach the nearest 'human'.

    //There are some battles, one needs to fight all alone.//

    How does one fill the void? A question I kept asking myself day-in and day-out. Absence/ Denial teaches you more in life than anything else. Ravishing tides hit my shore for days and month.

    //Now I have made peace with the sea, which since has been calm and I stranded//.

    ©k_kshitij

    (Probably, I can write still)

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    Cast-Away

  • k_kshitij 45w

    Who knows stars are nothing but spattered tear-drops of moon !?

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 47w

    Carmine yellow leaf
    Swivels rhythmically
    Autumn breeze cradling

    ©k_kshitij

  • k_kshitij 48w

    A Very Happy Birthday Dear @mirakee ! ����

    #cees_hbm_chall

    Mirakee: A Tree of Soul


    We arrive as aliens in this world,
    All for our own motives-
    Some to fill their loneliness,
    Some to mend their heart,
    Some to find love and
    Some to sculpt their words.
    But we can't help notice
    Having arrived at
    An alluring new world.

    A world whose population
    Believes in one religion, has one faith,
    Are enwrapped in one skin,
    Speak one language,
    Transact in one currency,
    Talk, walk, eat, drink but one thing,
    Dream but one dream- Words.
    Words that move them,
    Words that inspire them,
    Words that mesmerize them,
    Words that gave them an identity,
    Structured in the form of verses,
    Poems, stories, proses, essays,
    Speeches, dedications and what not.

    In no time, the outsider
    Becomes a part of community,
    A member of a family
    That wishes his/her growth.
    Art inspiring artists here,
    Artists inspiring the Art itself.
    The bonds flourish with fellow members
    As hand-in-hand we sit together,
    Gathering around gaining wisdom from
    This tree of Soul!
    Whose roots being passion and creativity
    Spread deep and firm in the ground.
    The tree has been a protector for some,
    A healer for some, a teacher for some
    And witness to love, loss and all that's life of all.
    All it does is gives, without any expectations-
    And it shall do for generations to come,
    Just maintain it's sanctity and piousness.


    ©k_kshitij

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    Mirakee: A Tree of Soul

    ©k_kshitij