Witches that I burnt (0)

 

Sunrays wrapped up her unkempt hair, 

a smile that gives away nothing at the same 

time forces a caged bird to lash out from 

behind the bars and take to the sky. 

A fresh stalk of rosemary between it's beak, 

thrust into the dense thicket of hers. 

Waves that crash to the shore, 

the eroding bedrock of a forlorn waterfall, 

we take leave between each of the drop splattered across it. 

Strands of thin hair by your left cheek, 

left astray for the breeze to stroke, 

a whiff of something that's been long forgotten, 

now waking up to a strange scent of hopes and dreams. 

And I know that I have to burn it all. 

Spirited

 

In little jars 

and box I keep of  you

the piece that never 

really left.

I collect them everyday,

from the dreams that we saw, 

the pictures that you painted and 

the songs that I wrote.

Piles and piles that 

I gather for unceasing embers.

I stare at them, 

with eyes wide open

and slowly I see, 

the flames weeping. 

I buried the ashes with 

two seeds and out of them 

grew trees that I haven't laid 

my wootz on, yet. 

Verandah

 

Polaroids that kept

an essence
of what we felt
on those days
film rolls that stole
a part of the times
that we treasured the most.
The breezy evenings
and faded yellow lights above us,
my palm over your arm
and your arm upon my shoulder.
Some memories that,
I wouldn't mind reliving
or even better,
being stuck in a loop
that ends with time,
only each iteration,
being different
and the same
all at once.
That's how I would remember,
the some of the best days of my life.

Cursed Ivory

 

(for all the giants chained and shackled during a festivity so uncouth and frivolous in this age)

Round and round around a temple
goes four legged monsters and devils on two
a wretched place that knows to sing
tales of old and the ones in yore
in languages forgotten by First Men.

They squirm and turn around in their wells,
they churn up the pots to hold dear
the things they say they hold them together
to shite and wash it white
one with left and the other with right.

Ask them to climb out of their wells
to look beyond the differences and
behold all that’s around with wonder
and they’ll start slowly crucifying you
with sins of the fathers long gone and done

Debts paid and credits all cleared
ask them to stay within their cells
for what takes them to merely look
at things which are at a fine balance
to face their fury like never before.

Blood on Wootz

I dreamt of men,
with long, twisted nails
and sharp teeth asking me
to sever a tiny part of
their pinkies and toes.
And I did what they asked,
not that I took pleasure in the act
but there was another blade
so close to my throat,
that each time I choked,
on the bile from my gut,
I felt the metal dig,
a little closer
to my vocal chords.
As I was done,
they wiped off 
the crimson and keratin
on their blade
and went forth,
to sharpen it,
to decollate
my head.

Waves

 

 

At some point in the night yesterday, I felt a wave 
hit me hard. 
It stinged a bit in the beginning,
diffused slowly through my chest, 
and felt it go up my throat. 
At first, I thought it was the cold, 
but it didn't get better 
even when I got warm. 
I thought a lot, 
about what caused it and steadily, 
I began to realise, 
that something was 
missing within me.
I think I started to forget;
the vehemence in her eyes, 
the way my stomach hurts when she talks 
and how Cronus naps while she's around.
I hope that the wave will visit once a while 
to let me know what kind of trouble,
I've gotten myself into.

A Silhouette

 

 

 

You’ll be surprised to find that
she never belonged with anyone after all.
No, she didn’t need anyone else,
an absolute way of telling everyone to stay clear.
Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t a cynic at all
she was just a frightened little girl.
After all, she thought, away from attachments, away from care,
was the only possible way
to break no one else.
All she could do
was to promise a spring’s dream
And you should know,
she was terrible with vows;
would make the ones she could never keep.
Her heart was whole, yes it was,
unlike us mere mortals.
And ohh dear if it was up to me,
The way things were meant to be
and the way they shall be,
would remain the same.
When the curtains fall and the laughter dies,
I promise, I promise, I shall be by her side.

 

(p.s it’s just ike on maggie, nothing else)

The Cumilation of How It Begins

 

There is a final line 

that we draw

between the things  

that we think to do and 

that the those

that we end up doing. 

A drizzle before the sun rises 

can blur this finely drawn fringe 

and we cross over

to either side believing for

reasons plausible on 

what not to seek to believe in eternity.

I don't think, 

an endless amount of time 

given should be given 

great importance and deified

for the transience of all that's 

around is was what it makes it 

worthwhile through our days. 

Woven by time, a tapestry that 

never ends is a fantasy too bad to be true

Hope

 

All those songs, the ones sung and unsung 

now heard from within, 

by a baritone humming 

and taking form to fill 

unheard silences in

the darkness that takes form

after the hour of the wolf.

All that pain searing up 

through its body being burnt 

thoroughly by red hot flames, 

to ash crumbling away with the wind, 

smell of scorched flesh in the air

orange feathers dancing with crimson waves

into a heap of charred bones and plumes. 

All those unholy offsprings, of 

despair and death 

perching upon my shoulder 

A fair trade for the fee across, 

I'll give up the forlorn scent inside her jar, 

a wretched thing that takes us forth 

and make us believe in a better day. 

Pulp; Inked and Otherwise

Do empty books and pages feel jealous about their written and printed counterparts? Or are they happy that they still remain blank and untouched? If I was one, I would want to be written on. Because I think that’s the most eventful day of its life. Once a great tree, probably a tall bamboo; chopped off, cut, grinded and crushed to pulp; treated with chemicals and other additives; transformed and transported from the middle of the greens to the incessant humming of machinery and finally to end up in someone’s hand. Yes, after all that’s happened to what was the parts of a sheet of paper, it would want to be used. To be filed with words and numbers or even better to be drawn and painted upon. A fitting end after so much agony.

What about the papers that get thrown away with nothing much written on them? They’ll have to be sad for this logic to work. The ones that become boats and airplanes are the luckier, I think. The joy that they bring to a kid is nice to be associated with.

The pages would have different stories to tell on how they feel about this. I don’t think they’ll be pleased, and their sentience could someday be a treat to our existence.

Imagine. One morning you wake up to find that the pages that you’ve dog-eared last night in a book that you’ve been reading for a while comes to life. Librarians would have nightmares. For imprisoning them in glass cases, only to be allowed contact with outside world for a very short duration. Or would they? Coming to think about it, they don the role of their guardians. So maybe they’ll be left alone. As for the rest of us. Well, it would be nice to learn how to operate a flamethrower.

Epilogue

The finest way to leave,

is to fade away, I think,
the slow death of all that has been,
once labeled, to outlive eternity.
A crown of auburn leaves and
a scepter of twigs is all what is left,
worn-out scents of a long-gone spring,
tarnished hues on a bland canvas.
Trading yesterdays, for the hours that trickle by,
to push a minute to the next, the urge to outlive,
what was taken out of today.
We live for the reasons that make tomorrow alright
and in the end, remember the only ones that matter.
The rest of it is just plain noise.
But coming to think about it, what else can we do?
After all the broken pieces and hangovers,
we say to ourselves, not ever again.
Yes, this is the last time I’ll let myself be
folded, creased and cast away,
with a touch of hopelessness.
Lives that break loose, days lived,
the things take away or give meaning to all that is.

Interlude

 

We are all in our separate conquests,

in search for peace,
paths intertwined, roads crossed,
routes entangled and journeys shared
to a destination not found 
but which finds us instead.
The wind whispering the names of the ones 
who sat there long ago, gone and forgotten,
memories etched on stones and fingers entwined, 
among amber and crimson leaves, 
crumbling to grains
and gradually gallivanting to an abominable abyss. 
Soon after the dust settles, 
wisps of long-lost fragments
of frail faith and flights of fancy, 
come back slowly 
believing a better tale. 
And when the sun sets sweetly down 
way below the gulmohar, 
some subtle souvenirs are safely kept 
for another day lived lest lost. 

Prelude

Yes, they are all Monets,
from far away, they all appear;
to be in bliss and placid,
perpetually in peace with serene thoughts all around.
But when you look up really close,
you’ll see, they are all nothing,
but quite a mess really, unknowingly tortured,
by self-consciousness and unrequited approvals from people unknown.
We were once touched by stardust
and I presume we all eventually return to it.
Prayers unheard and wishes unanswered,
looking for ways to part,
and oddly more than one.
There is so much that we miss,
chasing the wind and winding up where we began.
We are nothing, but the dining dead,
pawns of fate and destiny,
waiting to seek what is beyond these days.
But I still really think,
that eternity is over-rated.
After all, it just can’t end
and things are not beautiful because they last evermore.

Lamentations During A Unit Test

The days that we once prayed to get over with

are now the ones that would never come back
It’s all never gonna happen to us, a myth
that we tell us to keep calm.
 
But when the days turn to months and years
All that would be left inside would be some warm memories
And a cold chill from the inside, telling you
all the time, that this is how it would end.
 
From the beginning if you had known
that it would be this hard to part,
would you ever have grown this close?
 
All this feeling of emptiness, would be
gulped down by something  bigger and worse, someday, sometime.
When you’ll realize that you were the only one that felt it this way.