Is it possible to have a real empathy,
so deep and intimate, that you may talk
without uttering a word?
Is there a way to emulate mindset,
to accommodate a foreign feeling,
to live through strange emotions?
Is one right to write about stranger's experiences
or one has to undergo the same spectrum of joy and sorrow
to compose their true and vivid story?
Is a writer eligible to speak for others?
Who endowed him with urgency to draw conclusions
on life and death?
Why does he reside in his own world, enclosed in mystery,
oblivious of daily struggle
and decides on matters unknown to him?
Can such a complexity of life be inferred
by his mercurial mind?

i engaged in love ordeals then wrestled with the sense of loss.
as the earth got burnt by the sun and washed with rains,
so my weary soul faced the trials of light and darkness....

This world is made for the heartless and insane,
who doesn't have compassion and feel no pain,
but for the thoughtful and wise,
who are conscious of divine,
its just a passing of time.

On sunset i settled down to complete the morning verse,
to wash away the load of day's fuss and come clean,
to forget the intentions and cut the excitements short.
I come my place, leaving a part of me outside,
killing the noise at doorstep,
becoming oblivious of daily routine,
ready to start anew in the silence of darkness.
Let's celebrate the darkness.
Let's celebrate the silence.

Its sad, that death is the only tangible truth.
I'd like to wish for something else, but everything is a hoax.
Our love is a figment, that reason will dissolve,
a queer thought, passing through my mind to a place of no return.

Ask a writer,
why does he write.
Is there not enough for a reader?
Is it a desire to share a thought,
selfish urge to plant a seed of your disease in a foreign mind?
Who wants your subjective view?
Who cares for your sweet longing?
Who pities your lonesome howl?
Its a self-deception, that you write for the subject's sake,
or for the beauty of form and figure and meaning,
to shed a light into ambiguity,
to solve a problem.
But its not!
There is no problem in your science.
There is no revelation in your books.
Just an old man,
a treacherous catcher of human souls,
an insatiable glutton for attention,
a fame lover.
So why do you write?
Is there use for this ordeal and torture of mind,
or you are too naive to think, that some curious one will spot you between the lines, and dig for the hidden pearls of your world.
You think there is an honest reader out there.
But you are awfully mistaken.
There is only a buyer or entertainer or both.
So enough of pretension!
Reveal your true face!
Cry out loud, that you do it for nothing, but a selfish mind.
No one, but for your own self.

Man is so bogged down in confusion,
he is subject to circumstances,
his life is highly preconditioned,
his choices are predetermined,
thoughts are arranged for him,
I wonder, what does he has at the end?
What is mine, for God's sake?!

There are moments in the past,
that you want to be at
and you know, they'd never last
- it's so sad
because the present is a line in the sand,
between future and the past,
between ocean and the land,
between river and the bank,
that will never come to end.
And tell me friend
what's the use of being sane.
in the hours, that remain.

Am i old?
No, i am ancient,
like granite rubbles of abandoned city,
where silence is profound,
where spirit of bygone days
floats around,
between the time-worn pillars, embraced in moss,
you can feel the touches,
can sense the warmth,
that still so cozy and real,
where life was abundant,
filled with memories to the brim,
but now so still.
It has lost the vibrancy and allure,
the jubilance of spontaneous thoughts.
but found the wisdom of sadness,
the peculiar meaning of God.

Its true, a poet is a spiteful man
with inessential worries,
who gambles words,
to clutter minds with fabricated stories.
His job is simple, so banal -
to cheat imagination,
to design and conjure phrases,
that are prone to alteration.
His words are quite speedy,
born at the edge of ideas,
where feelings fall onto abyss
and walk on the boundaries of what's real, chased by dimming hopes and fears.

Don't feel sorry for me cause I am a Knight of gloom
I have neither sense of being human,
nor have passion, nor desire.
Just a comet wandering in space,
With no purpose and no place
Will you give me a chance to tell my story,
Which won’t bring me good, neither to you
But I like to imagine of someone,
living inside of me,
who knows my thoughts beforehand,
feels what I feel,
yearns for my talk
I want it to be a voice,
that makes my mind and body to shiver,
with hands as needles, piercing me
I have no cause to fight for but myself
I have no cause to die for but myself
Blame me as you like
Cause you’ll never know, what is like, to be me
I won't ask for approval,
I won't ask for appraisal
I am not desperate for your touch
Yes I am a gay, because I am fond of
Brilliant minds and souls.
So don't blame me, that i can't find a girl,
for they are hollow as tree trunk

I believe a place has a soul
where memories and
feelings are stored.
Either joy of meetings or
breakups' remorse
still resides there
waiting for rebirth.

I indulge myself in poetry, when i am in pain.
It helps to cushion the fatal blows.
Its my last resort,
when everything has failed.
When felt perplexed,
I rush to conjure another verse,
to purge fuzziness from my head.
It is a remedy for a broken soul.
I breathe with poetry.
I heal with it.

I am not afraid that people can hurt,
that love may conceal a terrible revelation,
that truth has no sense,
that reason may not apply sometimes,
so i keep poems by my side,
to kindle the feelings inside,
to save the humor for the darkest nights.

Words are my clouds,
to soar in the sky,
to build castles of imagination,
to play with shapes,
to chase shadows,
to flicker the lights.

This craft is old as human spirit.
It is pure and clear as mountain creek,
a mysterious trait in our hearts.
Perhaps, it is a nonsense
of feeling lonesome,
an uncanny substance
with no form and meaning
or alluring thought for feeble minds.
I can't tell for sure.
But it is a hallmark of all times.

A poem is only a poem,
words threaded into strings.
It has no purpose,
no cajoling,
no hidden desire to win.
They are mere lines of faulty judgement,
unripe thoughts,
born out of chaotic dreams,
spontaneous dreams.
Whimsical whims.
Whimsical whims.

Don't try to find a pretext in a poem,
you'll be awfully dissapointed.
There is no need to decypher the wording,
unriddle background conformity.

One doesn't intend by writing a poem,
to conqure hearts,
or accomplish a remarkable feat.
Poem doesn't need to be acknowledged,
it has own life to live.

A poem is the most pure gesture,
done with no implicit thought or vile intention.
It is a token of soul,
candid simplicity,
the most heartfelt conjecture.

as the years went on
i learned to linger on,
to take a slow walk
and make a little talk,
to think of sublime
and not to yield to pride,
to blend in a crowd
and not to speak loud
or brag about
or babble around.
I learnt to be humble
and behave with humility,
to be in the middle,
to value civility.
I've come to believe
in the tales of past,
that people remembered
but never did last.

for a dawn is an instance of creation,  
man awakened to world in awe and fear, with a glimpse of hope
on his obscure journey ahead,
overflowed with aspirations and uncertainties, the vigour and despair.
Its a message of change, reminiscence of promise,
a lonely moment of being confronted with dread and craving for life.

Writer’s life is destined to misery,
to be hated by what he loves,
to scribble and scribble to make a difference,
in a world with no trust.
He tries to confine sublime into phrases,
bring revelation to ignorant folks.
He builds paths, destroys mazes,
to shed a meaning to meaningless talks.
It doesn't win him bread - what he does.
His art is precious, but no one needs it.
People need lies to get excited,
the truth bores them, they choose to skip it.
Oh, what do you do these days, the honest writer!
You want to deliver a message, burning your heart?
To tell of things you’ve seen and found,
convey divine power and beauty of life,
of genuine feeling and perfect sound?

My mind is a battlefield where struggle takes place,
forces of good and evil clash.
For their cause may be justified,
but me is the victim,
who is trashed from side to side

I am tried and tortured for the sake of truth,
dragged down unknown paths,
drowned to hostile seabed.
I am a useless puppet, an amusing pet.

For the escape is unthinkable,
no way to unshackle sagging chains.
The earth is the limit,
where i wither till the end of days.
And the greedy clouds wont let the light out, looming over queer scene.
I try to read the faces, but the shadows take them away to decease.
The battle goes on.
The fight picks up steam.

I plea the master who set up this play.
I need a break.
I need delay.
The world is no longer my dwelling.
This life is no longer my claim.
I only want a little silence,
a time to think it away,
the freedom to shake my visions,
now no more than hazy shapes,
to fall asleep in wilderness,
where ground will soak me in green embrace.

some day i woke up in the late morning
with untroubled mind.
thoughts began to dawn on me,
about past, future and the world’s design.
what is like to be a human - a question i couldn’t find the answer.
it is like having a power of decision and being deprived of the power of will.
I read, that God made angels obedient,
but the human...
he gave man a rare power to be on his own,
to make a choice of path to follow.
And the irony is so striking,
that i am confused on whether to laugh or cry.
He let him decide and made compelled to circumstances,
to be a slave of chance and subject to a rolling dice.
Man has a will of exertion,
but not the will to will.
i sense the unhappiness of his state,
but what a wonder to be a human.
his cycle is to sin and regret,
running from darkness to light,
tempted by world’s desire and another of eternal life.
his curious fate has been manifested
on cave writings and carved walls,
in a story of Lot’s wife, turned to a pinch of salt,
in rubbles of stones and gold
and the battles vainly fought.
i love this human and i pity him much,
for i am the one alike.
i can deeply feel his mind and soul,
trembling in shades of dawn

Do you remember the fate of the fallen angel,
that had become a part of our common destiny?
His first crime and first guilt,
molded into the crust of every man.
His deep remorse will never leave
and the sense of spoiled spirit will persist.
No good deed will bring relief.
And after every failed attempt,
we turn to past and understand,
that there is no path to salvation,
no going back to initiation,
as we lost the traces of creation.
The only way is to finish the play,
to perform our part with no delay,
putting delighted faces for display,
to sin and sin again and run to pray,
thinking God will give another day,
to mend the broken pieces of yesterday.

A month or two, till now, i hated gnawing sunrays,
rushed to a spot of shade,
waited impatiently for the time to come,
when the cool air would tame the raging sun.
As the summer aproached its end,
i ******* find the fever to hate.
I loathed 'him' much,
but it gives me pain
to see 'his' vigour fade away.
And i can't stand the sight of 'his' draining eyes,
pathetic choking of failing life.

The day was nice.
The sky was clear,
and the sun was rising above,
but I had a fear
of dark clouds approaching from a far distance,
as far as I can see them.
I thought,
I might loose this beautiful day from the doubt that shrouded my cheer,
that the hope isn't real,
and its fooling me into believing in the seeming future
of the day I am dreaming.
Then I thought again and had a peace,
for at least
I've seen the dawn and the glimpse of sunrise,
that will keep me going on,
despite the looming sadness of would be loss.
I am content with this moment,
and have no aspiration for things to come,
for I've lost the fear to hope,
and killed them both,
under the rising sun.

Find the one with compassion and not contempt, for a fellow man.
Who doesn't stand out or gives impression, just a simple man.
Whose talk is short and neat, but expressions tell you much.
Find someone, who will give in need, when others leave you behind.
Who doesn't ask pay for a good and love you for other things.
Find the one, who shares food and drink, as well as your weighty burden, despite the hardships and ease.
Seek the honest, though naïve, who doesn't cheat and steal.
And not the one, of high status, who will mock you in your grief.
He, who quite, doesn't brag and raise his self-esteem,
Find the humble, though courageous, who believe in the wildest dreams.

this shifty wind on a sunny day reminds me of lonely future,
about time when i am singled out,
left by friends,
abandoned by parents,
deprived of expectations and certainty,
once abound.
its soft, mild, tender,
but killing
what i am willing today,
for tomorrow i am wary.
though content with now seclusion,
i dread it in a minute.
society scares me,
so i detach myself to a place and moment where am free of doubt
and commitments,
but sooner or later i'll need the believer,
one happy to bear the weight of my feelings,
who's no more than a dreamer, awaiting to surrender his soul to a preacher,
ready to turn into disciple of my ****** ideas.
it is so clear to see through the broken veneer,
how twisted my mind,
how strong is the fear.
‎come closer if you wanna see it. things what i am proud of,
‎stuff, that ive built
is the mash of sorrow and guilt.

i discovered God, while searching for inner self.
when i was alone and lost.
He was the product of my loneliness,
а proof, that no one can truly understand my nature. Is it an echo of my voice or a shadow of my image. Feeling or thought,  damnation or salvage. Am i playing with dimming hope.   Am i clinching to cracking rope. Is there abyss down below. I am not sure, i don't know.

I am not a poet anymore.
Or have i ever been?
The overflowing shiver,
that ran through my skin
on every flush of whims
seems to really gone till the last bit.
Scenes and sights that stirred me
from deep within
are powerless now,
as if they lost the reason to exist.
Your captivating glance,
the touch of your hands,
even the breath of love from your lips
can't turn the tides
and bring back the dreams.
Form day to day this fever feels foreign to me.
It may be right or wrong,
but seems, that I am not a poet anymore...

If i shall die,
I'll be alive, as never before.
The body,
this world, that i loved
wouldn't mean a thing,
no more.
Embodied in flesh, was i humble slave,
but set free,
I'll be a king,
‎once more.
‎
Words won't upset me
‎as touches cannot reach.
There won't be a need to define ‎the feelings
‎in awkward shapes of speech,
for a time to ‎cater to someone,
‎keeping the promise,
‎trying to please.
‎
Your lovely face will turn into shadow,
‎devoid of features
‎and traces blurred.
I'll soon forget its lines and furrows,
‎that once set me wild,
‎pressed to my lips.
I will miss them soon,
‎but I'll forget.

Scattered to pieces,
I'll invade the existence,
like shards of glass stuck in the teared eyes.
I'll become nothing and everything
that listens
to permeating sound of helpless cries.

Call for me at nights with that silent howl.
Put me in the dreams,
that may come true.
Look through the clouds and rain,
that may follow
for a glimpse of hope,
that I am somehow with you.

I hate the blues tonight,
coz its no use to grieve the broken heart.
There is no point in being right
in this meaningless fight,
when all are happy to be wrong.
I don't want to make a wish
nor i want to dream of you.
Tonight i yearn for simple thing,
to keep silence without the blues.
i am done thinking of fellow men,
their holy grace or miserable lot,
counting blessings,
dreading faults,
bashing head against shut doors,
rushing to open slots.
now i am eager to be real,
i want to feel the ground
to burn the traces of figments,
shout the truth out loud
I dont care if one cares,
how spooky looks,
how right the words.
Crowds will stir and stare,
but won't dare
to come near of my sword.
I've lost the steam but I've got the  fire
to crush the pillars of this world.
No matter how my fate is dire
I'll tread against the will of fools.

There are two weapons at man’s disposal:
one is instinct, another’s logic
whether moral or immoral
they are bound to be in quarrel.
Use the first or the last.
It doesnt matter, just be fast!
While the master up above
will roll the dice and flabbergast,
you might still have the chance,
to make decision and hold your stance

I searched for meaning in worldly pleasures,
in fleeting amusements,
in beauty's eyes,
but every vain attempt left me bewildered and broken,
for the key laid hidden in my mind.

I am sick and poetry's my cure.
It cannot help me, but i am drawn to it.
I do not care if its vile or pure,
just give me words, so be it.

The words is what i need and not the sound,
i search for melancholy they drive.
I spit on grammar and syntax they are bound,
and lone for feelings they keep inside

The world will never accept my point,
they use forms and figures and God knows what.
I'll *** on walls of every moment,
with all the zeal and vigour i've got.

Let me love You like I do
with fragile heart and mind in blue,
with dewy dreams of me and You,
with my shortsighted view.
With awkward shyness,
that I woo
and all mistakes, that I do,
let me simply be true to You,
let me love You like I do.

...

Thank you darling for bitter insight,
you broke my heart deep inside,
and through the crack you've shed the light
into the truth i've left behind.
The providence, i was blind to,
you've opened the door,
things i should have valued more,
people i should have cared more.
I praise you girl for throwing me out,
cause i've learned more, than i could have found.
Your betrayal was a revelation,
transcendence and salvation,
the call of divine,
the wisdom of creation.
Girl i am grateful for a slap in the face,
so i am awaken now,
i've found my grace.

...

Every day i witness my own demise,
to be born with hope
and die in despair.
Its a pointless struggle,
meaningless fight,
as i begin yearning for love
and end with broken heart.
I crawl to your feet,
to be dragged away,
to have a sight of you,
unable to approach
I wander why do i live this way,
with the glimpse of illusory idea of meeting your eyes
knowing change wont come to the heart of mine.
Me is a fool,
who knows that longing will destroy him,
but it is the only thing, that keeps him alive.

...

would she understand my play of words
would she care for the art i love
and listen to the sound i yearn for.
true heart is the broken heart.
sweet heart is the broken heart.

...

forgive me girl,
i've let you down,
you thought of me
as the man renowned,
but i've turned to be a real fool,
sorry girl i am no cool.

...

you've trashed my feelings badly,
and sadly or gladly,
I'm not getting madly,
you could have said it plainly
and put it out flatly,
so i would've spared my time for something else.

...

His love for her was most pristine,
so he could never think of anything bad.
She was the most high moon for him.
Though distant,
he yearned for a little shine,
every lonely night.
But he knew deep inside,
that its only a wish.
She was quite a cruel
and rather selfish.
How could the moon, so sublime in nature,
care for a man, treading the earth.
Instead, she looked up to the sun,
glittering in gold.
Stared in awe,
intoxicated by its radiant light.
It was her dream,
one day,
one night,
for the sun, to be the lovely bride.
But the man kept faith
and the man endured,
to receive from the moon a kind
salute.
He wanted nothing in return,
only gentle smile,
be it truth or the lie,
could give everything,
even heart or the soul,
but the cold face of the moon
would never turn below.

I hate poetry, cause its an illusion,
a resilient disease, with no cure.
I hate poetry, cause there is no way out.
I am stuck with it, and so lured.
I am not certain about my future,
nor can keep the trail of time.
With every word i sound so stupid.
With every poem i loose my mind.
I pray to God, to relieve my fears,
to scatter the doubt and pure my soul.
I shout and cry with helpless tears
and ask to grant my wish once more.
But when i am saved from this despair,
i feel lost as if in flare.
I lone for madness, i used to carry.
I want my virus back! I am crazy!

I’ve got a friend,
his name is Bill.
He lives in my head
and eats no meal.
He is like a ghost,
which haunts me down.
He is a noone but a circus clown.
I like Bill, coz he's a lonely guy.
His life is tightly bound to mine.
We walk together and chat at nights.
Bill is my only mate and my delight.
And when i am distressed or badly lost,
Bill comes gently and takes my hand.
He whimpers like a dog, on a rainy day.
He caresses my head and makes me glad.
I can’t imagine life without Billy.
He is the only friend who makes me breezy.
His nose is chilly,
but eyes are beady
I love this guy by the name of Billy!

Revisiting withered memories became my lot,
since i've lost the trail of time,
flashing past moments in my head. As if i was uprooted from the ground, floating in a limbo.
It is a strange feeling to loose the sense of reality,
when all rules and connections are gone awry,
when everything boils down to a single truth.
I sense in that particular moment, that life is a fast-forwarded footage
of events that have no gravity at all
and leaves a bitter yearning for forgotten feelings,
like sea tides ebbing and flowing,
pushing and pulling, it gently floats one into oblivion where all meaning is broken,
where everything is void.

Solemn abode of history unknown,
an abandoned house stands on its own,
with wearied walls and swinging shutters,
with dusty window panes and bended gutters.
It was a place of joy and now its in disaster,
with time hammering harder and faster.
No hope resides there,
only despair everlasting.
The spirit left it long ago,
leaving void and the shadows of its masters,
with old laughters still echoing the rooms,
celebrating hollowness they cant voice,
though their stories are vibrant as the colors of past days.
A sudden look will immerse its caster, in mysterious strands of memories,
pleading and asking.
Were the bygone days an illusion or reality?

I feel soft wind, tickling my face,
as if your finger's tender touch runs through my skin,
relieving fears and worries
and thoughts, troubled much.
I leave them all there,
where i fell,
in the dungeons of despair.
Tell me not of tomorrow,
not of labour.
Better talk over yeaterday's trifle,
even there is no time to spare.
Can we not live for the others,
not follow dead men's trail?
Live and die for simple things,
for the dawn, and night
and trivial dreams?

This life hardened me well,
deep to the core.
It killed my senses,
compassion,
empathy,
but the passing of mother knocked me bad,
took away my vices,
and left me defenseless.
As if brought to infancy again,
i began longing for that warmth
and care,
so familiar and dear.
I searched to hear the voice,
that blessed me every day,
for what i was and wasn't,
for the trembling glance,
that loved me without doubt,
with no bias and no tout.
I felt, i was unyielding.
I thought, i was strong,
but the passing of mother left me stricken,
    alone,
in the wilderness of this world,
among the cold faces of gloomy neighborhoods,
where no light of her kindness can find me.
Will i learn a lesson.
Will i find the truth,
though no flush of joy can heal these wounds.

i trade my soul for 30 minutes walk,
at unspoiled dawn, with no useless talk,
for the silence in afternoon and tranquility at night,
may the earth consumes us all, later or soon,
i'll stay calm i won't fight.
i dont need lover's tender touch,
nor i yearn for a moment of joy.
Life is fleeting, my creedo is such.
Take your pity, take your smile, take them all!
when the relentless noise is dead as an ocean stone
and the air is thin as a string of soul
you can play Vivaldi or Chopin's nocturne
dance for nothing or listen to empty tune
In the world of constant noise,
i pray for a moment of peace,
not to rush for anything,
stay awhile at ease.
Don't say a word,
shut the doors,
stop the clock and breathing, please!
lock the mind,
that ferocious beast!

can you love me for what i am,
with all my complexity and indecision
with all my faults and speckles,
my near-sighted imprecision

could you not put me on the social stratum,
looking through the lens of meritocricy
not to count my posessions and achievements,
level me with bittersweet verbosity

can you spare me of doubt, that clouds your relative judgement
see with all my ugliness and ridicule
love as days go by
as joy subside
as colors turn bleak
and darkness arise.

can you accept my immature writing,
filled with ill-arranged words
or the way i talk through stutter and occasional sighs.
forgive my incapacity for kindness,
awkward attempts to win your heart.

I've trashed the years
and never blinked,
nor cried a tear
for a lost chance.
It flowed,
the swelling rivers of honey and milk,
‎at my feet,
which i never counted or held dear.
So what,
‎for my shabby soul,
‎i lived and died here.

You say, i could ask for a little help,
at least kneel down in a silence, for prayer
or implore to wisdom of common sense,
embracing defeat,
succumb and concede.
So what,
i dont feel sorry for what i did.

I am trying to be humble,
though unconcscious of what that means,
palping the boundaries of dreams,
scratching old wounds,
that heal and redeem
with every probable sin.

Don't expect me with dazzling
success,
throwing treasures at your feet.
No words of comfort i can offer
under the glimmering stars,
brightly lit.
A mere sorrow.
Only defeat.

You can throw a few lies to trick my mind,
pretending to value its eccentricity,
while you don't give a ****.
So what,
i am a regular guy.
You might still pity me,
but never love.

i hate morning broken with the stink of socks. when my idyllic view of the world becomes troubled by the sheer weight of doom. as the whole life shrinks down to a spot on my finger. i get drawn to the mood of despair, with no memory behind and no hope ahead. What a dread, to feel that way. Like i was dystopian all night and turn blue by the dawn. ***** you blue sky, ***** you blue moon and **** the politics, that brings me gloom.

A man said, ten years will be spent,
whether you live or die
seasons change and waters dry,
some will arrive
and some will fly,
despite you laugh or cry.
Days will flip and flop
mindless of your presence,
time won't mind to stop
to pull you into the wagon.
There wont be time to reckon
the losses and the winnings,
to pack the broken remnants
of endings and beginnings.
The prospects will look surreal,
like shapes in summer haze
soon to catch a fire,
turning into blaze.
Memories will be weaker,
than tickling sensations
and dreams will turn brighter,
than brightest aspirations.

This age is the worst of whirlwinds,
of minds lost and souls scattered,
Puppets stringed with wills fettered,
unaware of times shattered
and clinched to things of worldly matters.
There is no guide to survive these events, tragic,
no time to apply for a power of magic,
can't stay aloof or lay unchallenged,
something  must be done and habits managed,
to change for good
and break the cages.
At least we try to overcome the risk of embarrassment
and fight temptation to show off,
not to lose the clear judgement,
to stop and look around,
when crowds rush to abyss with veils in front
and minds intoxicated,
unable to resist the urge to run for stuff fabricated.
We'll be enemies to friends and friends within enemies.
Always ask questions and not to pray for answers,
but dig and scavenge in wilderness of knowledge,
do things for their own sake
and always thrive for perfection
not for God, not for principles, not for ***,
but for perfection's sake.
The worst is to lose identity,
become a slave of indolent mob,
to be blind to light and sighted to darkness,
to loose the place to stop.
Remember to talk to inner god,
he might know the truth,
get injected with words, ideas and books of wisdom,
to shield from craze of this age's groove.
Dead could be precious than living
ideas, than mount of gold.
No one knows anything
it's only a dirt of the world.

as we trod along the path to salvation,
faking compassion
and synthesizing joy,
masking foul meaning with perfection,
sipping tasteless wine for mere ploy.
we've to come to a place and not the promised land
but desolation with no seeming end ...

its all about the looks
believe me,
which pierce the darkness and bring a light
it leans some people to forgiveness
and makes others feel delight

eyes can tell so much, believe me
they are path to soul,
a mirror of life
along the crooked ways of meanness
they give us session of respite

have you felt a look, that gives hope
and courage
firms your faith, instills belief
that leads you to the moment of salvage
and frees you from the chains of grief

Oh, i hate so much the noise,
the slamming of doors and
the cracking of bones.
The disturbance of air
caused by inessential cries,
disdainful sighs,
treachereous lies.
The purpose of many
are useless talks,
which poison thoughtful minds.
Only scratches of scribbles,
forging silence of words,
which sound so much tenderly clear,
than insipid shouts
are dear to my ears
    and eyes.
Couplets and couplets -
    my lifesaving droplets,
      that heal me of noisy venom.

It's intricating, to trace back the evolution of my faith.
It was a journey with undefined beginning and unknown roots.
How wonderful, to speculate over metamorphosis of your soul,
to observe paths you've taken and places you've abandoned.
First, i was quite amateur, thought faith was a sign of weakness.
Some portrayed a believer in God as fearful person, running for cover.
Next, i was indifferent, chose not to care.
Faith was a ****** territory for me, that i've never dared to explore.
Then, suddenly,  it stroke me like a lighting in a sunny day.
I've become passionate and devoted.
Subscribed ardently to every sign of divine and life became vexingly complicated.
Every event, every word was a source of confusion.
So i indulged myself in science,
became suspicious of religion and rituals.
Was confident that truth can be reached by senses.
I thought about omniscience of progress,
but lately have come to know, that however i try, logic is an infinite loop that will keep me curious but never satisfied.
I've realised, that Faith is an unconditional belief. One, that Bill Graham had when walking into the bush and contemplating about Bible.
He thought, man can't decide on authencity of scripture, he should just believe in it.
So i did.
I said, whatever comes i'll be humble, whenever uncertain i'll follow the rules.
You know what Niebuhr said about love, that if you value the result you'll never get to truth. You'll be free when you foresake desire, when disinterestedness becomes your realm. When you loose your face, forget grace, detach from everything, that you used to praise.