‘Arson’,
Cries the enslaved gunpowder path ,
That bridged our realms , of love and lust;
For beyond the rubbles , of Cupid’s wrath,
We are but orphan specks of dust.

So now,
Dwell we in the realms ,of those forgotten,
And to every legend , vanquished by rust,
Remind with verses bold , bitter but seldom rotten,
That We are but orphan specks of dust .

For every silent ballad
Raging in distant lands ;
For  every broken dream
Swallowed in temporal sands;
For  every dewdrop that will never burst ;
We are but orphan specks of dust .

We should have parted ways ,  
Like we parted lips
For were we the makers ,  
Of our bitter eclipse

And Now .
The Strings lie silent
And forgotten,
My muse is dead,
And the memories have rotten.
The dawn of the dusk
Is now on our hands,
As solitude greets
From stranger’s stands.

So.
The music of solitude,
Will await  no dancer;
We were our questions,
But are we our answers?

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When your muse will gently kiss a faded parchment ,
And give birth to verses
That will keep me awake all night.

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When I will spill more ink than a wounded soldier ,
Writing his last letter back home ,
From the treacherous trenches
Of scarlet love.

But then the trenches I sought refuge in,
Are more treacherous than the rusted bayonet ,
With which he will script ,
The final chapters of his life .

And yet like him ,
If there’s one thing I have come to believe in ,
Then it’s this :
There is more comfort ,
In believing ,
In an unshakable absolute ,
Than there is in hiding ,
Beneath the mills of woolen warmth.
And
There is more naked grief ,
In letting your dreams ,
Be hinged to uncertainties,
Than there is in daring ,
To brave the winter without your warmth.

And yet you wonder?
Why I detest absolutes,
Which need a blanket of uncertainties ,
To survive the chill of a Saturday night ,
A night which as it drags on,
Like a frozen Nicholas sleigh ,
Seems to mock every fiber of hope in my being ,
Fibers that I unravelled to adorn
The dwelling of My absolute.

This isn’t the first Saturday Night when the tale will remain incomplete
Without that innocent question I crave to answer

For you are my absolute ,
Uncertainty.

Winter Love, never did last till spring ,
Who knows what the year , is fated to bring;
And yet i say , somethings are meant to last,
Unlike petty parchments of our past .

We are separated by worlds ,
Of the same **** city ;
But even parallel lines ,
Do meet at infinity.

‘Tis your pennies that make me pound,
Like a shepherd mourning his fallen hound ,
Such is the death of my drunken pride ,
That makes winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Tis your comfort , I wish to skin,
And the game of chance , that scripted your win,
Such is the shine of a tanner’s hide,
That make’s winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Twas your charity that made me wait,
On the doorsteps of your divine’s hate ,
Such are the Churches I laid aside ,
To make winter, the Poet’s bride .

Realization Strikes

I can’t rhyme my way to the kingdom of warmth
But I can roam the streets ,
Like I always did ,
In search of warmth

And Roam I did

I roamed that Street ,
Where the City pretends to be what its not .
I roamed those Hearts who call that Street,
Home of their Christmas thought .
I roamed it all ,
Till the fairy lights were there to help me see ,
But Alas ,
I found no warmth where they promised it would always be ,

But Instead ,

Not Far away from the echoes of the city making merry .
I found an abandoned cemetery,
And in the Sea of unmarked graves,
I heard the voices of forgotten braves;
And So,
I learnt the art , Of braving the Chill,
Without a survivor’s iron will  .
I learnt to sleep without a care ,
And immune I became to winter’s nightmare .

Man ,
Be not a slave to the opinions ,of the chained ,
Recreate the world ,where once love and beauty reigned.

We are knocking on the doors of an era where our generation will come to associate love, romance ,affection and similar terms exclusively with ****** attraction and the desire to be in a relationship.
If only Lord Byron knew that in the very same world which he gifted with the moving verses that no Romantic can ever hope to match, in that same world, albeit in a different and allegedly a more ‘progressive’ era, romanticism would be distorted to an end even his Bohemian ideals would not deem acceptable, then Lord Byron might have hesitated before crafting those magical lines into what they became.
Every time an all knowing , self proclaimed , relationship expert featuring on Page 3 declares that love cannot happen outside a relationship , several graves , deep down in the Lake District of England struggle to be liberated . And truth be told, we could use some liberators. For its time to break the monopoly that ****** attraction has so far exercised on words like love.

And make no mistake folks. This is not merely a question of semantics and ingenuous word play. This is about much more . This is about emotions, rhapsody and their expression. It’s time we asked ourselves several honest questions – Why should we hesitate before saying that we are in love with our friends? Why are we still slaves to unofficial yet unambiguous collective social censors who mandate the boundaries of our expression? Why should we be ashamed to admit reality for what it is and what it should be?

These are difficult questions, difficult but necessary, because the answers lie in those reaches of our heart which we are yet to explore. Go deep enough and search a man’s heart and you will find love, even in the midst of hate .Such is man’s nature. Such is our bond with truth and beauty. But of then of course, there are those, who would rather wear their perpetual masks and seek to distort their own dreams, swallow their own words and mould our world to self imposed barriers.

There are some telling traits that these people share. These people wish to present us with a two dimensional model of the universe of sorts, so as to explain our thoughts and deed. They wish to establish patterns. They wish to connect the dots. They wish to label. They wish to judge . And their wishes are woven with a common fabric of insecurity. A fabric so fragile, that they are afraid of its very existence and hence find it fit to engage in acts of self-gratification that comes at the terrible price of false felicity and illusions. I say it is time we together shattered these illusions like once ideas shattered empires.

You always wanted a bullet ,

A bullet to shoot down the ghosts of your past
And bleed meaning ,
From the darkness ,
Of the dreams you cast
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember;
Your past is already dead,
It’s the Eighth of September .

“A bullet’s too quick” ,
I hear you weep ,
“Plus gunpowder costs ,
While my dreams are cheap”
The modesty of ******,
Undisguised in that line
Lead me to propose,
Cheap country wine .

High on the eureka,
We walked into a bar ,
And asked for a pint of poison ,
Preserved in a rusty jar ,
But then ,
The Bartender asked , for age proof from you ,
Alas ,
One of us was sixteen , the other was two

coughs

Heartbroken,
We got drunk on our memories ,
While it was still free,
It might be the age of reason ,
But death still came , at a cost you see
We drank and drank,
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember
Your past is already dead,
After all ,It’s the Eighth of September.

“But i still want a bullet “
To my surprise you ask ,
“ To shoot down your poetry ,
And the lameness they mask”

Such are the dangers of having a friend
Who would not just follow ,
But guide you ,
To your very end.

Shed my blood, can you ?
Like you shed your guilt;
Or suffocate me in ,
The world we together built.
But then,
A painless death ,
Is too much to ask;
From a stranger hidden,
Beneath a lover’s mask.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare

And Yet,

One last time ,
Can you take away my breath?
For a ***** I am,
Who makes love to death.
And Where once desire thrived ,
Now Darkness Plays;
The lingering tunes,
Of my final days.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare

When darkness is a friend you need,
When winter sings you frozen leads ,
When dimming is the world of life ,
Play host not to wisdom's wife.

You approached the chalice of despair,
Stained your memories , fickle but fair,
For when reality left you speechless and astounded,
You rode high on the ***** of abandoned.

The season has changed , but so should we ?
Why would you let broken shackles be ,
Your different self .

Did you try ripping pages from your past,
And drift in the seas of memories,
Without a mast.
Even Oaks shed their leaves once a season,
It's not about regret,
It's about reason.

Like the silent eye of the raging storm,
In a world of demagogues , you defy the norm,
Let the bells of freedom toll for you ,
And paint love in a different hue .

It’s difficult to face the night sky in all its terrible majesty,
When every star,
Every single one of them,
Is out there to mock you,
Scorch you
And break you into pieces.

It’s amazing isn't it,
How despite being made of stardust,
I cant bring myself,
To look up at those mere shiny *****,
Blinking with the fickle hope,
Of our past.

Back which brings me to my to my initial thought,

What am i afraid of ?
After all how much darker could it be
Now that I have seen you.

I have grown to hate your shadow you see,
A rose has no right to be yellow,
Absolutely no right,
The mere idea is a sick reminder,
Of why i have fallen in love with the dark humour of starry nights.
How I wish i could raze every field where you grow,
Drown your petals in my salty tears,
And let them embrace you like the idea of love
Embraces an alcoholic mind.

Which reminds me-
An alcoholic night is a perfect backdrop
Perfect for those who have found themselves,
Perfect for those who have found the one,
But remains a musical satire for the unloved.
And that brings me to the something you already knew deep down,
Forever,
Always,
That i am unloved.

Mistake it not for hate, because while hate masquerades as the cork of the wine bottle,
The unloved stardust floats in the wine itself.

The angels that guard my crumbling tomb,
Are half-off-springs of an immortal’s womb,
And yet,
They await the day Janus will come,And resurrect me with reviving *** .

For the Virgins that fathered firstborn fables,
I was unadulterated darkness without its labels,
But unlike Angels that smile on Christmas proud,
I have wings that act as December’s shroud .

I can’t scribble a scripture,
Even for a bob that craves to be enticed ,
Let every hollow heart now echo,
That I am the reborn Anti-Christ.

You didn’t just break a mirror today.
Go Ask the shards of broken dreams .
Which lie ebbing away on the marble floor ,
Painted crimson by your hands ;
And you will hear them whisper,
The susurration of the fallen .
The susurration  of truth .
Heart them narrate
A tale of the vanquished .
For that is all I am ,
Vanquished .
Spent.
And Quashed .
Like the demons of desire,
Living a life of Denial,
In your hooded eyes .

You didn’t just break a mirror today,
You shattered the only abstract left in my shallow world.
You shattered my occult hope ;
An abstract alien to cynics ,
Of life , love and all that once made us celebrate our kind.
But the reviving spirit ,
For someone who has everything to lose.

You didn’t just break a mirror today .
You broke my silent mistress,
A lover who witnessed more than you ever did.
A mate who knew more than you ever will.
And yet ,
Who Never did judge .
And know these love ,
Its death will not wipe the slates of memory clean  .
For  the bitter wine spilt last night;
Has stained us .
But also ,
Has reminded us .
Of what we could be , but never will be.

You didn’t just break a mirror today .
Ask the pieces of your broken image,
That beg clemency from your shrine .
A Shrine of solitude you have built for yourself.

You didn’t just break a mirror today ,
You broke yourself.

The cliff of epiphany, perched below the lonely sky ,
Played host to divine directions that none dare defy;
But when men conquered the realm of gods,
Forever in Favour of ephemerals, remained the odds.

The game of chance , is a an antique of an age dead;
When questions haunted our mortal head;
And answers were disguised in victories, pyrrhic for most,
The vestiges of which seldom wash off the temporal coast.

Like a fugitive marking his escape,
The candle’s flame flickers, sans shape.
Like a melting heart, it lives its end,
For to exist today is to offend.

So once again thunder strikes, the cliff of old,
The cliff of gibberish  ,where our mortality was sold.
The epiphany echoes through the valley of the doomed,
Where once danger thrived and adventured bloomed.

So,
This City shall burn ,
And so shall I ;
But I’ll wait till I hear its final sighs,
Lest I become a lover , without a mate,
Yet On the crutches I stand of fickle fate.
Now , I hear the cries of the living corpse
As he sheds his skins of mortality
He stands open as he begins his morph
Towards a new reality .

I am the stillborn son of war,
Strapped on to an unmanned chariot of unrealized dreams;
Ever Since I was born as the heir ,
To the twin kingdoms of hypothetics and hypocrisy.

I am a silent sculpture,
Of the broken skeletons of sorrow,
Nourished by the blood of the vanquished,
And meant to unite the mourners on the banks of defeat,
Under a common cause.

I am an unopened letter of sympathy,
Waiting,
For the last tear drop on the armor of the vanquished to dry .
I am the final abandoned fresco,
Fading to obscurity;
As it graces the crumbling walls,
In the Chapel of fallen hopes.

I am the moan of the heart ,
Where the echoes of my prophecy,
Have greeted celebrations of existence,
Long before I was born to die.

I am the chant.
Immortalized.
Immorralized .
By the reverend voices that preached ,
From the pulpits of divine demagogues.

I am the invincible myth,
Inheritance of abstracts afar,
For I was christened Peace ,
The stillborn son of war.

I wish you would stay awake tonight ,
But your Eyelids bear the burden of your past ,
And your Eyelashes are anchored to caskets heavy ,
With logs of unburnt memories ,
Logs fit for the pyre of your past ,
That you chose to maroon on uninhabited shores.

I wish you would stay awake tonight ,
And watch me burn myself at the pyres of your past ,
And keep you warm enough to outlive this winter,
And every winter destined to come ,
And dream of a tomorrow,
Unstained by the poison spilt last night.

I wish you would stay awake tonight ,
And let me gaze away at those stormy eyes ,
Which unlike mere spheres of crystal beads ,
Mirror the memories that lurk ,
Beneath a veil, well woven with lies ,
And spun out of strands of false felicity,

I wish you would stay awake tonight ,
And sing me a different song each hour ,
Till your song outlives the eternal force ,
That rolls the wayward wheel of time ,

I wish you would stay awake tonight,
But then , I know you won’t .

Once you were a blazing fire,

Undoused by fear or favour,

Fuelled by ideals which our priests decried,

But one day History would savour,


You burnt your way ,through the backwoods of death,

Where the smoky memories, remind us with every breath,

That you were the slayer, of the darkness that came,

But your brightness blinded, our future just the same.


You abandoned us without a trail,

Let your legacy grow beyond stale,

And as the world crumbled without sight,

The blind bickered about the light.


Yet , real is our love to claim,

But fickle is our spark,

Don’t let us be a gamble of cosmic proportions,

In your battle against the dark.

The creaking of ,
The staircase plank ;
The stubborn stench,
Of the ale we drank ;
The surreal smile
Of the carpet stain ;
Are the muses that drive ,
Verses of pain .

When the fruits of blindness,
Ripen red;
When fading memories,
Yield up the dead;
Then the potion of regret,
Begins to be brewed ;
Even by Silver Sorcerers,
Of Fallen Solitude.

In the shadow ,
Of every page i tear ;
Your halcyon laughter,
Is all i hear;
For behind the veil,
That hides the scar;
I trace the footsteps ,
To a heart afar .

In my last dalliance between Parchment and Ink,
I crossed many a line, without a blink;
And like a fading whisper, beckoning your heart,
I bridged two worlds, never meant to be apart.

The fading music of the Brontide;
The cursing of the storm’s bride;
The growing nebulous of our dreams,
Are Symbolic of more than what it seems.

So follow those amorphous puffs of smoke;
Into an unexplored world of caprice;
Where the chrysalis of inhibitions broke;
And desire rode the midnight breeze.

Riding a chariot ,
darker than your darkest thoughts ,
For mortals a sight bearable not .
Perpetually driven,
By despair , misery , grief and pain ;
Carving paths , lined with blood of hundred slain .

A million shades , all of deathly hue,
Shrouds the body of my ride;
For from my grasp , not even spirits of His ,
Can think of holy ways to hide.

Know me man,
For I'm emperor of spirit world, origin of fear ,
Sustainer of Anarchy , Chaos creator.
I hold sway over the world darker,
Before , Now and forever.

Crafted in the forges of hate ,
By skilled spirits with a cursed fate ;
Outruns it not mere winds or gale,
But even the mighty shadow's trail .

Quick disappears the ephemeral's soul ,
Devoured when by the God , of all beneath .
It's he who rides this dreaded ride ,
It's he who sadness and anger breathes .

Minions of mine , are patrolling the depths of our abyss deep ,
Allowing spirits to float across , or simply seep ;
For when degrees of darkness engulf the dead  ,
There remains not much to be said .