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Sher Shah Suri Dec 2018
How long can one escape death’s osculation?
She sits by our side like a concupiscent courtesan.
Stroking the ossified soul,
Seeking a final *******.
Sher Shah Suri Oct 2018
Bird of Hatred that never left,
rises again from hibernation.
Once risen shall never die,
leaving a trail of blood behind.

Bird of Hatred has no color.
It lies in the eyes of the beholder.
Even the blind it shall hypnotize,
preying on your worst fright.

Bird of Hatred never soars.
Floating around visibility.
Those that surge above,
shall be brought down comfortably.

Bird of hatred sings,
a crass cacophonous rage.
Mesmerized crowd enraptured,
stares gaping towards the stage.

Bird of hatred shall escape in time.
Leaves behind a crowd so riled.
Everything to ashes reduced,
from which a bird shall rise again,
like a Phoenix.
Once risen shall never die.
Sher Shah Suri Oct 2018
Always believed I was a prodigy,
Never doubted myself or my abilities,
Until I stepped out of my zone and tried,
Made myself vulnerable for them to criticize.

Thought I would be heralded,
For having a ***** atleast.
But was left stranded,
In the ruins of my inefficacy.

It was either mockery or
a shower of sympathy
no empathy
for me,
A worthless peach,
Felt like a leech
******* on a buffalo’s ****.
All I wanted was someone
to tell me - “Son
You gave your best shot,
Gather everything
Prepare for the next launch.
And if you still can’t carry on,
It’s okay to move on
to something better.
And life goes on.”
Sher Shah Suri Oct 2018
The large army of sadhus and saints,
Oh! Don’t mistake them for dovish men.
If it came between a man or a calf,
They’ll shoot the man and spit on his corpse.

That valiant army fought many battles,
Armed with axes, sticks, hammers and sickles.
They once tore down a giant monster,
That looked more like a temple of a competing order.

Having reclaimed their lord’s birthplace,
Bringing pride and honor upon their race.
Vultures hovering above at a height,
Waiting to stoop below for a fight.

Front changes, battle rages on,
Heat of the sun, to cool of the bar.
Fire within kept burning,
Fueled by love and hate churning.

I now seek permission to blasphemise,
For I question the lord they canonize.
Isn’t it dastardly
For a slayer of demons
To seek help of mere mortals?
Sher Shah Suri Oct 2018
The Prince gets away with ******,
At the price of 2 guns and a tower.
Now we know what oil can buy,
From the orange idiot who acts blind,
And rules the world, but not hearts and mind.
Sher Shah Suri Oct 2018
We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.

Culture! Culture! Cried the painter,
Oldest of the old.
A single ******, a blazing hue,
He drew as he was told.

The nation in all its feminine divinity,
A trident and a halo.
He drew as he had drawn before,
With a saffron brush.

The mural stood in all its glory,
Under the warrior’s watch.
Till a bullet pierced his spine,
And he died while yet on his watch.

Again the painter with his saffron brush was called,
To paint over the blood stained wall.
As the warrior looked on,
Remembering his fallen comrade,
Humming the age old serenade.

We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.

— The End —