Miraquill
To the stalk that was razed before the bees arose
To the friend for a night who now walks on all fours
To the child that suckled on a closed liquor store
To the enemies on the shady side of this door
To the bald spot that would've adorned my head
To the pawn shop that keeps running out of bread
To the seven silver spoons strewn over my bed
To the warmth of sugar-dipped bullets of lead
To the priest whose tar-clogged heart was never found
To the soulful prisoner, gagged, homeward bound
To the flashing neon's blinding lewd sound
To the heathen's monologue nailed to the ground
To the last breath to ever embrace death
This song clawed in a teardrop is left.
©rishabhpal22
29-03-2020
rishabhpal22
Grit
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rishabhpal22
113w
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rishabhpal22
113w
With your poor-hearted snare
Stretched 'cross the wooden shore
And your lullaby ever so frail
The sand sticks to my scratched car door
The headlights once flicker and wail
The faded petrol pump receipts
Pen Poetry, insincere,
The worn our stick's worn out grooves
Moist with sweat, lay bare.
The door lock picks its broken self
And the Moon slashes its wrists
The sunken sailor rests his voice,
Jake Peralta echoes noice
Alone and forsaken
His cries bleed on stone
The waves bathe your sinful song
To my cold engine's moan
Clenched, my fists cling to the wheels no more.
With a malarial sanity
I am the blood smeared on my knee
I vaporise to that dastardly call of that sea
I cremate souls that never were
As you fondly sing and stare
Where the stars were once murdered
'Neath your poor-hearted snare!
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
114w
She mopped my deadweight eyelids
With a cotton sogged in blood
As her left ring finger
Stroked an ashen rosebud.
With a whisper choked by sand
She drew from purple mud
Nucleating 'neath veins
Thin as the wings on a spotted moth
That was torn to shreds by her repaired tablefan.
Her feet hanging off a noose
She said, to this self-pitying, make-believe man,
For lovers' guise,
I stood naked
Shivering, in the midst of thy spring
While you, Lover,
Slumber in mine
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
155w
Credence
The ink once was at shoulder-arms
When paper there was none;
The wettest bone was stiff and loud,
Prepared to shoot and stun;
Blades of dust, kiss they must, fingertips, burnt and bruised,
No night was dark, to hide its mark, not a pistol noosed!
The streets were of stone, to be pillaged, to be mourned,
To play the wise man who never died;
The river would wail, as it wagged its tail
To he who never lied;
To the pair of wings that flailed about a rocky cornerstone,
Maimed the wind had blown.
Paper just might emasculate,
Poetry shall blossom out of Fate;
The ink would spell out to me
From four-lettered words;
The names of that stone,
That man, that river, and that bird.
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
177w
Gods of our Days
Shelled gods of gutsy times
Ousted right when near;
That sell high on dreary shards,
Drawn be fear and drawn be heart,
Halogen too bright to guard
The Gods of Our Days.
They wear their vests when all that is,
The nylon prophet of the breeze
Who flails beneath the subtle breath
Of the Gods of Our Days.
Who governs the muffled cries,
The deadness of the burning ice,
The stiff, the numb, the dumb, their price
When truth be told of falsely lies
That kiss this corpse of mine?
Hold your feet, slay your rhyme,
To butcher your own forgiveness, Crime?
He who seeks an inch of hair
To burn your head and wig you fair,
And holds your hand, says your prayer,
With claws driven beneath your bare,
Bare conscience!
The keeper of your synergy,
The naked, damned Gods of our Gutsy Times.
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
194w
Bludgeoned Prophesy
Green skies weep, their milky tears suffice
The uncountable fingers pointed;
Towards the scales of halogen lights
That may have thorns adorned;
Muffled-wail-anointed,
Into a holy obscurity!
Dwells in which a thousand and one
Sparrows and squalls of timid chirps
Twelve robins, sight hath none;
Pitter-patter prophesy of
The ink-washed kerb,
A four-fingered poet described?
Taunts he, a mockery of me,
Vain my voice may be;
Strangles he when the ink has dried;
And the kerb has been freed;
The streetlight has ceased to claw
His flesh of naïvité.
The kerb was his throne to grind
His kingdom, a bludgeoned thumb.
A bludgeoned poem.
A bludgeoned prophesy.
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
209w
Schizophrenia
Like an untethered raft drifting away
Along the weeping brook,
For lives have I floated across
Sanity's sinful spectrum.
A wounded noise insinuated all that I took
Till tears of a prophet had drowned my loss
And left me numb to pray.
The shadows that once inside the mirror
Danced with mine abreast;
Confinement have beseeched;
To dally with Time's memory,
And be fondled by the silhouette of the crest
Of a tide's dying wave being leeched
By The Three-Headed cur!
My heart is a lonely tramp
Lost in an unwavering maze!
Where the widest of lanes are narrow!
And the tallest of men aren't men!
Hope gives to the cowardly fire of doubt ablaze,
And the sun may never shine tomorrow!
Yet its fettered walls are unbroken and damp!
Seeking Wisdom's words for truth,
For lives I shall drift on!
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
209w
Judas Unnamed
The trailing robe hangs 'bout too loose
To take me through the door;
Where Sirens rue to midnight blues
Along an unknown shore.
A lonesome cloud limps on, ahead,
An oblivient orphan stares in awe.
Soulful, serene, supine, as said
The dusty clouds of her forgotten flaw.
Tread past a fallen corpse,
That a rainbow stood once tall.
The shadow of time warps,
Shrieks, stutters, trembles, and crawls.
The arms that blind mortality craves,
Time, blood-veiled, preys upon winter's grave!
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
209w
A Portrait of Affection
Pray confide onto my muddy canvas
The deepest hue you may paint!
Stroke the brush of your tryst with destiny!
And whisper your symphony so quaint
Into my once percussive soul.
Writhing in solitude of a one-eyed eagle;
Perched high upon a horizon that's faint.
What may come of this discord?
Will Apollo be gracious to hide his face
In the darkness of his lord?
May the rosemary not kiss spring's first breeze?
Or the last of the snow melt down Time's benevolent fjord?
Let me, my holy one, into your boughs
Where the butterfly sleeps within your bosom;
And the Muses savour the nectar of your beauty!
Let my canvas be the only
Where your stroke paints our poem;
Illuminate, O Virgin of my Dreams!
©rishabhpal22 -
rishabhpal22
214w
Sacrilege
Blessed Goddess of the cursed mother of sin!
In whose shadows do you lurk?
Drunk Sirens of Hymen dared not pluck before Spring,
Bloom of His prime colossal work.
Trembling fingers foretell the pallbearers of his Time,
For whom, round goes, the Earth?
Away within the hands of God, "pristine and benign",
We bear not slightest worth.
Oh! Gaze past through the high who now prostrate!
That snow-white flame trails their bloodless innards!
Linger, Humilty will conflagrate!
Let justice lie to the death seeking bird!
Yet, may the blurry wounds fold before hands do;
If 'rise divinity, forget, man, subdue!
©rishabhpal22
