most people I called mine are now out of reach, and the least I can do is let them be. I had learned the lesson of letting go too early but never could practice the same art. they say it takes more of you to hold onto the past than to let it go but what do you do, when it's the same baggage that keeps you from drowning? when I say people, I think of sunflowers and ships in the sea, but the world is panting with drought in its veins and a Bermuda triangle collapsing on its only third side. doesn't it remind you of people and their many pretty faces, but expectations hurt and you can't grow immune to that. when I think of people, I hear their songs of love and sighs of farewell, but the world is bleeding in words of poets and wars of times, so much that double plurals in my poems can't suffice to say how much it hurts. most people have built homes midway, for a destination sounds too complete and the least they can do is choose an end they can really see. most people i called mine are so out of reach, maybe it's the distance or the parameter of clocks but the more I look away, the further a horizon slips away so all I can do is jot down these thoughts and make a poem of them, 'cuz even if I'm not a poet these words can still sympathize for me, even if it's for their own sake.
Everytime I gaze in your direction, I can't but look up at your face, so much like the rest of the world- multi-faced, and yet the human in me wishes to count on you, half-hesitantly, supposing one of the many possibilities of not being let down by the seemingly 'closest to knowing entity' of the many unknowns in the salubrious list that we- humans, don't like to address as 'superstitions'. I know that's one long statement to be a first, but we share a long history, don't we? Everytime we exchange glances, I discover a part of me in you. Birds in flight seem to draw invisible maps on your face; and as much as I try to unravel these transparent threads to build a whole image, soldiers in white threaten to endanger the little peace I've gathered because my life is an open book, and you, the sole reader. As I learn and relearn your many faces, I can't but accept, how every emotion in my mind is like a replica of the many repeating sigmoid waves that streak purple zigzags across your face. Dear sky, it's not just me, but the entire human race, who look up to you, with a million prayers in their mind and yet the only word that forms on their lips, spell the name of their god of faith. Won't you be a little generous today?
every day of being human is a war. every night I buckle up and set myself en route to the endless road- wordless, 'cuz everyone's chasing the same goal, the same mystery, the same journey.
at one point midway, we're all scarecrows hiding behind chalked smiles. angels hover over our lifespan, stretched like north and south poles, we can't see either but they exist, frozen in their own places.
I see people, building walls in and around themselves, I try drawing boundaries to keep them away, often forgetting I'm as much a human as them.
before it dawned on my visual field you were gone like a ghost in the wind now the air is stale and speaks a foreign dialect. my mind picks up the last few signposts of summer, waiting like angels of transition- one eye verdant, another blood red. maybe this evening is possessed or maybe I'm seeing things or maybe, just maybe the world is racing too fast. two hours past the end of this summer, my arms are frozen from your transparent embrace. two swollen orbs traverse the skyline, searching for a rebirth of dawn, when electric poles cast longitudinal shadows on the thermodynamic sand, but farewells last longer than wordless prayers. nightmares tiptoe around the borders of my town and monsters creep downstairs from their highland houses- battles resume in the wind, muffled voices hint at silent prayers, a sigh a door, a plagiarised speech on screen, two bottles of champagne- one underneath a bed, another in bits claiming a quietus. thousand soldiers on road, and three battles curtailed at home. in a world where winter lasts forever, orphans of life still peep through windows, a prayer in their gazes knocks on summer's door.
a sunset a day, two battles a night. someday there'll be a dawn without martyrs of a quotidian summer dissolving with hopes on the shore.
He huddled up as the dry September breeze wafted over him, something inside him rose to its feet his thoughts aligned themselves with a voice, a voice that was now standing tall, a voice that had no shape or form, a voice that had been hushed and forgotten, a voice that had reached a crescendo; she drew up her knees, as she sat down beside him, something glistened in her fierce eyes something feminine, something he yearned for.
The clouds parted above their heads, the wind tickled the tree that housed them, a few leaves tinged with yellow fell on the ground; tears of laughter. The two of them sat there smiling at the night sky as the stars aligned, and the universe looked them in the eye and the whispers they exchanged echoed throughout the night.
One of my hot favorite scenes ever includes the drowning of #Titanic_movie when everything is upside down except that #orchestra band that kept on doing what it has been, making themselves true #Virtuoso .
(A journey from golden rules in literature to No rules)
》Middle ages rusted classical Gracio-Romans 》Renaissance invaded darkness of the middle ages 》Puritans hanged the Renaissance humanism 》Neo-classics revitalized pseudo classicism 》Romantics rebelled rules by making no rule, a rule (Reminded me of a character #Gonzalo in Shakespeare's #Tempest when he says "When/If I shall be the king.........there would be no king;) .) 》Victorians made art matxist 》Moderns violated ancestors 》Blank verse gradually n finally got into #Free_verse!
Clamour of rules is to writer, what glamour of Titanic, was to orchestra. It stood, while it sank. It stayed, while all escaped. It played, while all groaned.
Beautiful, mesmerising, raising curiosity. Brushed by various hues. Putting up a smile that's obviously cloaked. Breathing but the wind pipe seems choked. Representing a disturbed artist's brilliant showcase of a beautiful mess. She represents some chaotic beauty on that once blank canvas.
Far far away In a fairyland There was a prince with only one hand. But as I was told his heart was of gold. He had a beautiful mind and was so humble and kind. The king wanted him to get married as part of the decreed. But because of his disability The kings of other kingdoms were hesitant. He asked his father not to bother. For if love is there It will find its way.
It once happened That the prince was on his usual stroll when All of a sudden He saw a girl surrounded by few swordsmen. The girl had fear on her face They guys intentions were not good that he could trace. His guards were left far behind Without a thought He took out his sword and with them he fought. He had the idea that he may be overpowered but he was not a coward. He fought them like a brave. Injuring himself but the girl he was able to save. He was left in bloody mess and felt down unconscious. When he opened his eyes he was in his castle and to his surprise the girl he saved was there beside . She was all dressed up and Looking all pretty. She was a princess from a kingdom called Antriquity. They fell in love with each other. True love does not care of the conditions or weather. It just happens if it had to. All you need is to be true