an abandoned house,
with chronicles of deaths painted on the walls,
in the shadows of it's doom,the reaper lurks,
watches over with eyes of death,
waiting for the omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
and he shall devour the soul

everything the reaper touches,
transcends from space and time,
to spaces between space,
he has never loved a flower,
never held a newborn,
never cried,never laughed

and now he is slowly dying
of all the lives he has taken
the reaper is dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether it is painful
or wonderful
but it's sad.
it should be.

It was never about the stars,
the breeze,the tides
or the ocean

it was about us,
the way we made everything relevant,
the way everything existed,
in the aura of what we had,

we lived in it,
loved our naked realities in it,
everything else just crept in,
just to be alive and exist for us,
so next time you feel a breeze,
or hear the tides,

remember you are with me,
and we shall hold it till eternity.

the tides comes in mighty,
wrecking ships and plundering beaches,
it's a blue chaos on white moonlight
and in a few hours
when the sun yawns out of sleep,
the sky shall bleed yellow,
with tides patted to sleep
like a dog that had too much love,

the disarray of the universe
dissolves and resurfaces everyday
like our hearts,
like our lives,
like everything.

I sometimes wonder,
the brave and infallible
who **** each other and die
for their countries,

on reaching the gates
of either heaven or hell
what would they say
to each other?

would they still have
the hate or rage
that pushed them to an extent
of killing each other

or would they share a common grief
over what mutual hate did to their lives
and brought their bodies feets below
the ground, rotting and dying slowly,
alone

a colossal marble
was just a huge rock
until you layed eyes
on it and bought
it life in form of David,
the biblical hero,

walls of the heaven
in god's own earthly residence
were figment of imaginations
till you painted the entire bible
on the walls of Sistine chapel
that stands as beacon of hope and faith
for those who want to
follow passions extraordinarily

you were Apollo reborn,
only to return back after guiding humans
about the irrepressible capacity we possess
of which we have gone unaware of somehow,
even today, in shadows of doubts
and the storms of failures.

forget the followers,
forget the other **** writers,
forget the counts of accolades
forget the defeats of your writings,
forget this night as heavy drunk blur

listen to rhymes of your keyboard
and see the world and it's travesty,
see the lives falling apart,
see the births wailing to life
see the rain,the women,
the racers who share a drink with death
everyday,
the lost lovers,the mad houses
the wars,the sufferings
the beauty of light of first day
and spit it over, use your blood as ink if needed
and be immortal this life
and don't stop till you do.

insanely bright,
quaffed of colors,
smelling like rotten vanilla on ice,

a constructed barren land
with no lush green to incite eyes,
no blue sea rhyming flows to please ears,
and smell of sudden suicide of air

you thought a damp lonely dark pit,
can only torment you but the light
is the answer to everything?

Think Again.

Do you know even
what darkness looks like?

it is when your home turns to dust
from sudden shellings
and you walk over bodies
of children,women and brave men
you once knew,blown up in syria,
the middle eastern sun even couldn't
outshine this obscured darkness

when your first flight out of country
ends up with you body tattered in pieces
dropping from 35,000 feet just because
pro rebel russians felt showing
how big their ***** are,

and here you sit
pleased in your well perfumed house
petting your cat
while writing on your mac-book,
"the way he left me, I was confined
to darkness"
I pity your darkness
but I hope you recover soon
from a weak heart
and delusions of insignificance

an Egyptian dancer
who in the bare silk
retraces her moves
over sand and scorpions,
converting morbid infatuations
to desires in the sweltering heat
and as silk melts
I can think nothing of,
than to watch and pray for salvation
for this timid abomination from faith
maybe this how monsters are made,
I wasn't sure
or I didn't cared that time.

Bridges

I burned the bridges
to the past
and bathed in it's ashes
to never be afraid
of it

but the smell never goes,
the road is still there
and i still believe it's ghost
will haunt me,
for times to come
and there is nothing we can do,
nothing at all.

What if the Moon
was the second sun?

who couldn't be brighter,
who could not give life,

one who was devoid of love
and decided eventually to float alone

only to attract the oceans
and see the people
sigh over love
like himself
for eternity

the lost city of the Incas,
survives and breathes
with this cataclysmic vegetation
still malignant and undying
to conjure divinity
for those lack,
in the purest form,

it awed Neruda and Che
with the shimmer of the first light,
the smell is a poisonous offering,
the view is like an unforgotten love,

most of the nights in my sleep
I come back from there
and some of the nights
I wish I could never.

it is upto us
to choose,

whether these times
are going to be long
forgotten years,
rotten with bigotry,
stinking of nothingness

or as a testimony
for the times when we
burned our minds and souls
as embers on a cursed night
to never look for the sky ever
in search of a false hope.

His symphony,
blossomed the wrecked hearts
and compelled the angels
to descend from heavens

He then smiled
to the godly creations in awe,
bowed and left

for he had his own demons
to exercise and control
every single night

an angel was the last thing
he wanted

In the Madhouses,
everyone's insanity
is up to the brim
and pitch perfect

they are howling's
and scares of restlessness
but nothing is hidden inside.
it's like the soul
possessed by the heart

all are in the neverland
hallucinating on free will,
waiting for eminent death
with open arms,

but then again,
they cannot earn, be social and
breed for deemed to dangerous
for a society as their minds
are too weak and heart too strong.

I sometimes wonder,
where does the madhouses really lie?
within their boundary or outside?

We are the mere shores
and love is the turbulent sea
separated and united
at the same time.

to yearn to meet
and pass this great sea
is to face and gratify it,
knowing that it's turbulence
can erode us away anytime.

If I could rhyme
whenever I want
Wouldn't I be singing?

a hymn , an ode
a sonnet , a quote
What would I be bringing?

a laugh , a sight
a beautiful night,
Will you be there swinging?

a kiss , a touch
that wouldn't be much
my love,what shall we be drinking?

a broken guitar,
an unopened letter,
a string of pearls,
and a faith in the stars

all were washed away
on the king's tide
and he just watched
the ocean and rain

sweeping a part of them
away forever in the depths
they once had wished for

I have seen time lapsing
and slowing,
as I try to hold back
your tears

I wasn't the one,
you knew it but weren't prepared,
like the land that isn't ready for rain
and young for the inevitable death

still we played with fate,
laughed at the fading dreams
for eternity and what extends
and waited for nothing.

What scares a writer?
I have always wondered

some say it’s the rejection,
some say it’s the creative exhaustiveness,
and some blame the isolation

but for me it is the blank screen
that mocks me for emptiness,
laughs on my in competencies,

In it I see my rejections,
my creative exhaustiveness
and the isolation.

for it contains nothing
and holds everything.

In my dream last night,
I was swirling in slow motion
within a deep bluish whirlpool

I couldn't breathe
or feel anything,
all I saw was my past
swirling around me

the fear and the failures,
gloom and the despair,
love and the promises,
all swirled for my eyes

It was a slow dance
in a burning room
and I wondered whether
it would stop or not?

the darkened horizon
will attracts no birds today

the storm
won't adore the weak

a walk on the shores
would be a blind suicide

for the moon's love
would conjure the sea

ink spilled
over papers or parchments
by the devoted disciples,
to govern for the unseen holy authority
never imagined that their devotion,
would be so misunderstood
that the rivers would be full of blood,
crusade would be full of cries of children
and a symbol or a petty face
would conjure fears
in generations to come

when a smile can't guide to us love
but a scripture can guide us,
to hate that is when you know
that the world is doomed not due to lack of love
but due to ignorance of it.

If your words
have the spark
to burn away
the rudimentary thoughts
and aflame the irrational nights
for even a single reader

then it was worth
to spend years
to become a pyromancer
of words that lights
the lives

Curled up
in a corner

staring at the mossed walls
amidst the light that devours fireflies

the petrichor is now stronger
than all the ales I had

this reverie
the imagery shows no sign of ceasing

and with everything coming back to me
I am ready to stumble again

and fall every step
to write and rewrite

the joy is somewhat incessant
like it always has been.

Lo Behold for the time has come,
to raise the glasses
for the worthy unsung

it is the day they embraced death
as a good old friend, with respect

the rains will dance
and lightning will cry

they did not went alone
in the darkest night

someday sometime one has to take a leap
with eyes open and heart asleep

let us celebrate the honorable dead
with the brightest faces, tears unshed

Lo behold the time has come
to raise glasses
for the worthy unsung

entwined scents
and a divine grace
a sombre gaze across the room
that sent all hearts to race

days passed and so did nights,
nothing was so vehement ever
than those beautiful eyes.

I have been a dreamer
since that day then,
to conjure an eternity in a moment
maybe it was her only sin.

a speck of cosmic dust
or a tiny dot
in the blackened emptiness
full of mystical voids

life has flourished here
even in the savagery and butchery
of flesh,minds and even souls
all in the lands floating in blue

yet we are not terrified
or stupefied of our existence
neither grateful nor pity
for this spectacle

or maybe the light
is at the end of the tunnel
and me walking in opposite
or worse running blind.

but when the night sets in,
and you wash the disgust off your face,
the eyes in mirror are just not looking to admire
that pretty face,they ask for dreams once promised
this job is going to save you from everyone
but who is going to save you from yourself?

lying on this table
staring at me
is a monk with a *** belly

maybe he wonders
how is my ride to nirvana going

maybe he wonders
as to why instead of humming a  prayer,
i am on a war with the keyboard

maybe he reads the books I kept there
to trace where me heading

or maybe he was tired of everything around
had a hearty laugh and boom..
there was his nirvana.

Dust off your closet
and hack off that trophy wall

pack every one of them
and make them your prisoner
for the remaining life

if you want to be remembered
then start pinning your rejection letters
on the trophy wall of forgotten past,
till you hear every word
while sleeping.

sanity will beg you to fight
and the heart would race against mind
if even thinking about this is too much
then the smooth sea is all yours

you were not the one for untested waters
cause drowning was one of your fears.

Some day that sky will crash down
with all it's wrath upon us
and nothing would ever matter.
everything would be dust and bones

We will then realize
that death should not be feared
but be chased upon
with the perfect laughter

On a cliff,
I stand and see
the ocean and the horizon
playing hide and seek,

I waited for them
to dissolve into one
for the fire to extinguish,
the ashes to drown,

my soul relinquished,
but a memory still lingered somewhere
it's not that easy I felt
If not here, not anywhere.

Just once let the reflections
in the mirror
live and speak
curse and cry
laugh and go complete mad

for I am sure
they are dying to do so
since we started hiding
from ourselves
long ago

She came like a tornado
uncontrollable,
untameable
and took me to places
I never thought would exist,

only to leave me there
with blurred memories
and with whatever she left
of me.

We have laid to rest
our past
like an afterlife

wrapped with everything
we could get our hands on,

the childhood,
the curiosity,
and the indifference towards
failure

all lying in a single place
left to suffocate alone.

I wonder will they die before us
or after?

true love
if lost,
becomes a story
written by those,
who are afraid of the ending.

stories of these kinds
always give restless nights
to the writers
till the end of their
weak lives.

so if you are writing one now,
write true and bravely
or never write at all.

This monotony,
of getting up

even the weather is too cold
and murderous grey

sunshine doesn't greets me
birds don't chirp

just white sheets everywhere,
a lifeless bliss

why couldn't we sleep through the winter?
does it lament over our lives?

Dreams are ravenous
for this life of ours

they can't see it thrown away
or being wasted

they will either devour the monotony from our life
or succumb one day

It's up to us to decide
whether we lie down to succumb
to this chaos

or join them
every day.

dust from the all the worlds,
a scarf knitted by a mistress from somewhere,
jar of wine that makes you forget the past,
thirst for the lands unseen,
this was all
what the nomad ever carried.

scriptures from all of the worlds
a letter written in some undecipherable language,
potion that makes you drown in dreams,
curiosity of meeting people never seen,
this was all
what the wise ever amassed.

they never traded stories
they traded in worlds.

Standing next to rocks we once carved
trying to remember the etched memories
of the years gone by,

when I had unison of dreams
and nightmares with you.

the wrath of time spared none,
not even the rocks , I see

but I wait
to conjure everything
from these rocks.

there is something about the air
when it is about to rain,

Did you ever feel it?

Lullaby

Sweet melody,
and the rain soaked air
lying on my mother's lap
with absolutely nothing to care

I feel ashamed of myself
and wonder as to why,
where was I even this busy?
how did I forget such a paradise?

I ask her after all this,
why does she love me still?
and she just patted my head with a smile
rest was just eternal bliss.

Like leaves on sun burnt trees
our ambitions slowly recede,
as the winds of change blow,
are you really ready to let them go?

or would you catch them
as they fall and scatter,
dead may always remain dead
but would it ever matter?

would you not wait for a whole season
for them to grow again?
or just sit infront of the idiot box
silently biting away your pain

Verses

Why go in verses
maintain a rhythm
when the words spill
all over the canvas
fighting for spaces
to conjure meanings
and sometimes feelings
before they finally cease to exist
and get trapped forever,
in pages of the books
left in the empty corners of libraries
to be read or just seen.

Why seek the rhythm
when the world outside
is full of chaos
nothing but Chaos

Three tiny tots
and a fluffy dog,
laying on the grass
looked at the clouds.

the first one said,
look an elephant,
the second one said,
look a rabbit,

the third one said
look a dinosaur dancing on the rainbow,
the others were jealous of his imagination,
he was only humble for his blindness