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.