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.

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.

As waves wrestle playfully,
I revel like a nonchalant dreamer near the shores,
watching the sun disappear,
while the sounds of sea,
calm its disappearance

I waited all night,
to see the golden coronation
of the bluish waters,
as the horizons brightened up
in the morning

a thousand faces,
a million visions,
now stay within me,

meanwhile the city of dreams,
sleeps somewhere.

I feel the weight of summer
arching my back
with droplets of its love.

My t-shirts hate summer,
It makes them nauseous.

The night burns in dark,
the stars left us long ago.

It is they who hid the warm winds
in unseen alleys of the sky.

I wait for an answer that never
comes.
I wait for a voice never heard.

The night silently leaves.

I see loads of people
crammed in places where one can’t breathe
full of music promised to drive away your demons
just to wash away the dirt of the week that slipped
and they eventually try
to live one night
just to survive the days coming
We are all in this whirlpool
of never ending desire
to lose ourselves
in people we don’t know
things we don’t care of
Ask me, How your nights are?
I would say restless
Why?
busy searching myself inside
and scared , if successful.

Come here,
sit next to me,
don't leave me tonight.

watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise rich sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds,
through mellow howlings.

this cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow,
let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.

don't leave me tonight,
come here,
sit next to me.

All bodies await,
the burning over pyre,
the cycle will go on,
till there is desire,

Amidst the flame and fire,
lives turn to ashes,
the material body is an illusion,
soul is freed in flashes,

The path of life,
ends here,
and new paths unravel,
it is a mystery indeed,
for which the soul travels.

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.

lightness descends
in the head,

as brief visions of yours,
reincarnate within myself

you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion,

an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations

and I read you very slowly,
like one of my own written creations,

for I have been a starving reader
all my life,

and you were finally
an end to my starvation.

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.

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

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.

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?

bring me a slice of the sky,
a bucket full of sea water,
a handful of the earth's soil,
and a breath full of hope,

for I would pray to unseen powers,
to fuse and mold,
humanity with nature again,
rinsing the sins of both,

and we shall learn to respect,
the age-old tryst,
which existed,
between the gods, we don't remember,
and the humans we once were.

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.

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

We are like the universe and the stars,
visible only at the night,
Inside one another,
Burning bright
Without shame.
Without tiring.

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.

it comes with slithering steps,
a quiet wave thirsty for shores,

the collapse of senses,
the reckoning of misery,

when dreams melt and flow,
reality devours with small venomous fangs,
the air stinks of a beautiful past,

shattering of glasses,
is all you hear,

a sapphire burning red,
is all you see,

regretting your choices
and your existence,
is all you want,

but a heartbreak is not that cruel,
it is a mercy,
an indemnity,
from what lies ahead.

a sky full of loneliness.

unhook your bra now
and melt slowly in my arms
lets sleep till winter.

Let us wake up someday
in the shadow of the dreams
where your lips are the only light
and I am inured to blindness.

Guide me to them
but not by touch
for this heart
shall memorize the curves
and you will be lost forever.

A smell shall suffice,
transverse me through your body slowly.
Till it is the light only that I can smell.
The light only, I can feel.

Let me be the mirage
in the deserts of your loneliness.
You will be the river that flows within me.
We will forget the thirst at least.

Till these dreams are sublimated
and the shadows vanish,
Come, walk on the dark side
of these fragile dreams
where the music fades
as the dark green leaves
welcome our toes.

I shall teach you someday
to seek darkness in the fire
and we shall make a home out of it.
I promise.

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

Hymn those verses
as the eyes dive into this
seminal darkness,
the ones I always hear
and forget at the end of the dreams.

Build a Crown of wood,
and lit it up for those
eager to taste it.

Split this fire
into two parallel mirrors:
Power and Desire.
let me see the anatomy of it
and the invisible bones.

For they will keep burning each other
till they forget their purpose,
as the mind and the soul often forget
when awaken by the rain of blood.

It is that time of week,
when our meaningless pursuits
drown in beer and single malts.

Our shadows retire besides us
tired of walking on overdoses of caffeine
and monotony.

The tires rest while the toes
breathe.

Even in this restless summer,
you somehow remember the fire hearth,
within your heart when you were young.

Exit Doors closed with regrets.
The waves are not beautiful.
The fear of death tastes nothing like ice.

A miserable mixture of cheap gin and tonic, that is a straight gulp of unending silence would feel like.

You are in the stagnant waters now,
don't forget to swim.

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.

Poseidon's hellhound
slithers in remorseless seas
bloodbaths are just feast

Tell me why all things that start,
cease to exist as they were,
whether good or bad were the purposes,
meaningful or meaningless they were,

Tell me there is a reason,
for why I see the end?
not far away,not close,
ghosting itself in.

Tell me that I am wrong,
that the end would not be bright,
like dark shadows that hover around,
and scare me with their sight.

Tell me it’s all a dream,
and it would break someday,
and I would be happy for what I want,
someday but not today.

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.

How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.

To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,

to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.

to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
ever.

an amicable smell
from the dried grasses
after the evening drizzle
and the turmeric laden idols,
that fuses into memories,
like reopening dust laden book,
in the house that greets waves
with eyes closed and an absence
of discord

even souls here burn
and wash away like a dried
incense stick on voyage
to nowhere and everywhere

the cows ring bells
in harmony and unison
there are no beds
but the dogs and humans
sleep alike
in comforts of a ground
that caresses unequivocally
in life and eternal death.

the smell has gone now
now concrete, glasses and woods
stink of success and fervor,
something terrible happened
really terrible.

Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.

Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust

The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.

I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.

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.

Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.

this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.

The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.

We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed,
In winter,when it rains saffron
instead of snow.

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.

there is something
about those wooden chairs
at the Jameson's Bar.

the way they consume the
yellow brights, I believe
they could have consumed the
sultry nights,the spilled whisky,
the cheap tips and the unspoken
stories.

it's like a polished reflective
demon,that asks me to sit on it
and begin the satanic act of
dissolution of liver.

the way it does so,
I might have lost a hundred stories
to it in the most painful nights
I saw and swallowed within, with only ice.

but I never regretted.
nor shall ever be,
for they have read my stories,
when no one ever could.

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

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.

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.

It begins with
a melodious blur
as a taste of forgetfulness slithers
over my humble skin.

A yearning evolves slowly,
to disappear away
from this meaningless pursuit of flesh,
we are trapped by our existence
and nothing else.

I trespass within myself,
in search of a purpose,
in the hidden sanctums of my delusion,
where blues waves greet my feet,
and the sky made of ice
howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.

It never rains,
But I always forget to stride aimlessly,
these hungry eyes are served
with sumptuous visions,
and till my hands bleed
this hallucination copulates
with my reality.
I finally learn to float
within myself.

I pen all of it down,
in the night
and call them as Art
in the morning.

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.

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

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.

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to **** him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.

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

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?

sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melt
to eventually freeze
in the sky
a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace

a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,

the fangs of frost
***** the petals of the flowers,
some of them will die this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which we seek,
but at different times of life