I'm reeking of rotten fuchsias and sweaty armpits from the time sun has been breathing within the chest of somnolent shores almost everyday, I'm shredding ungerminated seeds one after another apart from my will when clouds wail along with me at bay.
My past is a woman festooned with beautiful scars, following me when towns exhale murk in air and I overpower her with a sluggish smile as my weapon. She took birth in the aftermath of war as a treaty of defeat, & swords do recite tales of her which the world has abandon- ed to believe.
This city is dawning darkness upon me under the courtesy of belligerent sun and I'm crushing betwixt the demure of my own delirious shorelines, but I'm trying to run towards Archimedes asking how to put off the weight of this buoyant forces, hoping he will lend me a hand out of welkin. ~Purva
My breaths weighed heavy on last Thursday, as if the sun crowned my exhausted chest with few rotten daisies of somnolence and anxiety, it was Jane Austen's novel in my hands but my eyes were more evident to the last kiss of two departing sparrows which I couldn't fathom till eternity.
And as I hoarded the first whip of air rushing towards my cheeks, the roses in my hands pressed over the embroidered covering and the air smelled of sweat more than smog from chimneys, for a moment it felt like clouds are walking beside me and skies are heaped with greys, rainbows are trespassers and humans are too fragile on diverged lanes.
My ribs sighed in less suffo- cation as each gaze was led out of my eyes, and emptiness chose to curl up my hairs within, narrow roads and long-brakes has taken me aback to few lost memories and withered wounds which bloomed on my skin last spring.
Uncertainties swallowed the day and the bruises hidden under the petals of my skin transpired like the bounty of nature, sailing from one bus to another I was headed up by my dreams in this journey because some days you are more vulnerable. ~Purva
@miraquill Thank you so much for improvising me on each step and blooming this heartsease, without your support I've been nothing. Tenth Pod and I'm extremely happy ❤️
@writersnetwork I've been always grateful to the wonderful support you gave me ❤️
Once when I was young, I grew sunflowers on my neck and dragged sunset above my collar bones, to levitate peace in my orchard where chaos laid barefoot on white pebbles and black stones.
I saw more light raising in bottle of wine and howls etched upon grass blades, I've succumbed thousands of screams in my head but silence walked out of my throat each time truth negotiated.
When I was young, I labelled heartbreaks as poetries and scars as belligerent hope, but as creases endowed my skin I felt life is more about survival and existence, like blooming dahlias, which cry and shout yet smile till in fences it is choked. ~Purva
I love that word, tradition. A bit archaic yet it settles in the lower pocket of beliefs, I've seen it escaping from hourglass almost everyday, but now it seems to fade away like clouds after raining.
When the skies were bluer we stitched confetti's on empty walls and greetings on the tip of our tongues, we filled hungry stomachs with spices and herbs like rifles stuffed with guncottons.
When I saw time being naked, the last time, it was Diwali where dull hearts and pale skin bloomed into scarlet and beige shades, hope was a little brighter while sorrows a little fainter, and humanity screamed as a loudest forever.
I love that word, tradition. Which bring our hearts closer like orchids, roses and lilies in same fence, but we are drifting apart in this pandemic, till what remains is our own selves. ~Purva
Kabul, T̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶s̶i̶a̶ ̶ the hubris of Asia
When the leaves turn brown and the evenings bleed orange, I'm robbed up by the admirers of mountains, desserts, rivers, bazaars and everything else.
I'm settled to be a paradise with gun-lights on highways, a castle indebted to freedom and a pilgrimage invaded by, once, twice, thrice, till every- thing fades, while Soviet sighs.
Dine in the world library, and trail migrating dynasties on the snippets of my bare skin, call me a coal-tar but you'll excavate diamonds in men on my lands while women are hindered from rebels but often preyed for their beauty.
The sky curls up in blue and the autumn in auburn shades, snow melts upon the empty walls of exhausted palace, and village huts carry too much. I feel like I'm an ordinary city.
But I'm more than museums and mausoleums, maybe a chronicle of vague dates, millions of places, obsolete tongues and unheard wars, hungry for prayers and peace yet served with another history. ~Kabul
If you ask me to nudge whole nine yards of chores someday, I shall walk through boulevards of alphabets before summing up how to fill empty vessels or cut through the blunt edge of knife.
For to walk on a lane we must know in which shoe our feet are placed, to rain our tongues which clouds should be hold on, for perceptions are born from the womb of words and when perception fail to sail, tides of actions must not raise.
Actions may step in from the corridor of Newton's third law of motion, whereas the home belongs to motility of words, where attachments are flaunt- ed by chains, chains hooked up by thoughts and etiquettes.
Thoughts arrive first to shores before waves make an effort to sail, even though ripples create louder sound but without the blow of rhythmic air it shall collapse and faint. ~Purva