Frigidity wounded the tender palms,
numbness nestled in beards,
crystals of snow hung from her earrings;
all now photographs that have creased.
The souls stare into the windows once mistaken for walls,
recalling their shadows chained to the stagnant snow,
but the seasons are meant to spiral,
and amidst the mosses osculated by winters,
there bloomed petals adorned by renewal.
Some cling tight to the yarn,
afraid of pointed crystals shredding the weave,
while some recall the cold, garbed in a tender sweater —
the tender sweater spun by bleeding hands,
pricked by needles and lost amongst the threads.
Once one with the pine tree,
trembling in a blizzard,
they now converse of and with past,
clad in fabrics of rejuvenation.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:05 AM UTC
A bare canvas cannot grace the gallery,
and solely a vacant amphitheatre applauds the painters
who refrain from staining their fingers,
the ones who shudder at just the flawed tint,
rage at one stray stroke,
and wince when colours slightly choke.
But when the palette drains the last drop of paint,
a canvas clad in imperfect hues
remains superior to the isolated one drawing in blues.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
I asked my better halves
how they desire to lie,
once their hearts stop beating,
and breath bids a last goodbye.
Whether they want the stars to
sculpt their constellation, or
the wind to whisper their
cacophonic tales.
Whether they want the earth
to devour their cadaver, or
the skies to weep and
wash away their existence.
The guitarist stated he'll despise grief
as his memories are being relived,
of who he was and who he remains,
as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir.
And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar
don't have to be mourned over,
but applauded for the melodies
that once kindled a ripple of delight.
My dearest across the border
wishes to be nestled beside a mosque
to be enwreathed by The Divine
and lullabied by the Azaan.
And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade,
and the past still echoes
within the mute boughs or
streets alive with familiar voices.
My junior casts an absurd wish —
to be submerged in cocoa's caress
and be tossed to the lesbian zombies,
who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable.
And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever,
but so will my adoration for her,
and perhaps, the craved fervour will
find its form in me.
Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables —
she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves,
flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts.
She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods,
and her heart to rest beneath a willow.
She wishes to slip into silence,
like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl,
breath scattered over moonlit stars,
and a page torn mid-sentence.
And lastly, if you enquire of me,
I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self
and be gifted to time and science.
But if coerced to be cremated,
I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree.
With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth,
I will embrace the excluded,
my shadow will shelter the weary,
and my fruits will sate the starving.
All of which I was never offered
in the frigidity of my bloodline,
but was abundantly endowed with,
in the refuge of my closest mates.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC
The embrace of spring kisses good bye to the crystals of winters,
and flowers bloom among mosses within crumbling walls,
yet rather that dancing among the roses,
I press myself against the thorns,
since the crimson string ties the last knot
with the bullets cherished by the winters.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
Merely a ghost in the blue void,
flesh and blood kissed the lighthouse as
the silhouette of her beloved ship greeted her.
Yet stripped of his graze, she crumbled,
as guided by her vehement yearning and
cloaked in her gleam, he sailed closer,
but faded in the horizon forever.
Apr 28, 2025
Apr 28, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
Rain drops' lullabies carve serenity
and slither through the canopies,
while the world is garbed in melancholia,
souls are drifted by nostalgia.
The droplets ballet on the soil,
as souls wander in turmoil,
drowning down the lane of memories,
chasing a mirage where photographs don't crease.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
Whispers of gold adorn your visage,
but why do they hide your facade?
The orange skies are calling your name,
but you're too vague to gaze the glade.
The dawn lifts your veil,
for you long to be caressed by the sun,
but as the covetous twilight blinks,
you shy away from the world.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 9:57 AM UTC
Buried beneath suffocating feathers,
little canary resented flight.
The unbearable weight of her wings
made her caress despondency.
She dared convey her plight
to her pretentiously affectionate birth-giver.
Expecting solace, she received a ******
as in she augered and died.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 9:43 AM UTC
Forgotten beneath a pile of clothes,
with the intricate weaves desiring escapism,
I miss the spinner of these threaded relics,
and adore the art of binding them together.
Cobwebs perceive me as their abode,
and dust rocks in my cradle,
as I whisper the tales of kindred dwellers
haunted by my covert scrutiny for years.
I'm a stranger to the delicacy
of the fingers I sheltered,
yet familiar to the cacophony
of secrets they cherished.
When the glistening stars ascend,
I stretch beneath their gentle grasp,
and as the dawn breathes through the panes,
I unravel into forgotten threads.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 10:53 AM UTC
Begging to graze the weeping clouds,
the ocean is leashed to the facade of horizon.
Clad in blood at twilight, precursing moonlight,
the sky garbs the ocean in its hues.
Yet, the mutual admiration is baneful,
since the osculation is destined to be an illusion.
But beneath the galaxy, when somnolence seals the world,
the ocean desires escapism and reaches for its beloved,
however, betrayed by victory, it devours the mortals,
pondering if it is demanded by requited yet unattainable love.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 10:50 AM UTC