When the time is right
You will shine bright
But the cells lie dead
No charge to spread
Train your guts
To track that spot
patch through the area
To light your Mitochondria
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:25 AM UTC
Cut open that wound, scarred and charred.
The gush of blood — even then, still runs red.
I am what I am, monologue of a rogue.
The class act he holds bears no shape,
true to his soul.
Demons of the past laid webs so vast.
In rest or in war, they mock this mind
when it loses track.
The fear of being torn — in fine lines it was told.
Worn as if it were norm,
like an autumn tree in storm.
The player got played;
the trickster on stage whispered,
“Stay clear of the sage
who veers your rage.”
Every breath a gasp,
each thought a task.
Forgotten smiles
gave birth to a grin, dark and stark.
And the thought it left —
of a truer self —
spilled blood on heavy‑laden hands,
to rise from sunken sand.
—Quiet Poet
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:55 PM UTC
A kind-hearted soul,
in a whirlwind he strolled,
locked in a cell—
its keys never withheld.
The cage set him free
with a passage that read:
“You have passed the stage
where you could flee.”
The baggage of hope
strapped onto his back,
stuffed with the shreds
of laughter and grief.
Under its weight
wings lost their hold—
too weak to take off,
too weary to back off.
At the edge of the cliff
he stands—stranded, not still;
the depth of the reef
stirs no thrill—only grief.
He mustered some strength
to get off this trench,
slit out a thought—
that gathered great length.
He entered that space
where darkness once grew—
“A stroke of a ray
could puncture it through.”
A sudden gush of light
fell straight on the wrap,
tied to a yacht
sailing for new shores.
To test waters anew,
with the cage out of view,
I stepped onto the barge—
like a baron off to his land
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 12:56 AM UTC
The world we live in
has borders we know.
The neighbour we call—
some bear-hug, some choke.
Elevate your realms;
we are all one,
so we were told.
Platforms were raised
in hangars and ports;
conniving hands, never old.
Most of them—
it isn’t Nirvana,
the light they hold.
The pompous perverts,
in ludicrous lust,
longed for control
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 9:43 PM UTC
Donned was the night sky
with twinkling stars.
Dawn came, its eye
plunged in sirens of war.
A fleet of birds that flew
from Middle East and West—
summoned like kites,
chirping back to its nest.
The eggs of chaste,
in haste, gave birth to flames
The high-rise storeys
and hyped-up stories.
Lest we forget
the mongers in power
who unleashed this terror
to preserve their cover.
This trembling hour—
the coming hour—
the pendulum stalled,
its hands now slain.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 3:18 PM UTC
Donned was the night sky
with twinkling stars.
Dawn came, its eye
plunged in sirens of war.
A fleet of birds that flew
from Middle East and West—
summoned like kites,
chirping back to its nest.
The eggs of chaste,
in haste, gave birth to flames
The high-rise storeys
and hyped-up stories.
Lest we forget
the mongers in power
who unleashed this terror
to preserve their cover.
This trembling hour—
the coming hour—
the pendulum stalled,
its hands now slain.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 3:06 PM UTC
A kind-hearted soul,
in a whirlwind he strolled,
locked in a cell—
its keys never withheld.
The cage set him free
with a passage that read:
“You have passed the stage
where you could flee.”
The baggage of hope
strapped onto his back,
stuffed with the shreds
of laughter and grief.
Under its weight
wings lost their hold—
too weak to take off,
too weary to back off.
At the edge of the cliff
he stands—stranded, not still;
the depth of the reef
stirs no thrill—only grief.
He mustered some strength
to get off this trench,
slit out a thought—
that gathered great length.
He entered that space
where darkness once grew—
“A stroke of a ray
could puncture it through.”
A sudden gush of light
fell straight on the wrap,
tied to a yacht
sailing for new shores.
To test waters anew,
with the cage out of view,
I stepped onto the barge—
like a baron off to his land
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 1:08 PM UTC