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in the swollen grass
there is wither-month

upon which the brutes
come and find shelter

hewn in shape
of grief

moth-bitten maps
torn in halves

theirs the flesh
of seasons

ripened canaille
of shorn sculptures

bruised fingers
that say
"there is no meadow"

as though harvest
pours in spring

and sparrows spiral
in salted hymns

so shall the night hour
wilt the porcelain moon

hung against the
slivered brume

gathering quietude
on the shelves of the
shepherds


This poem reflects on a place that appears serene but is steeped in quiet sorrow. What seems like a meadow becomes a symbol of memory, decay, and disillusionment. It speaks to the weight of time, of seasons that don’t heal, and of fragile beauty clinging to loss — where even sparrows sing lament.

there are ghosts
on the roof again

they whisper
through leaking vents
and broken antennas

perfumed rot
and cheap whiskey
spill from the sink

the strays sing elegies
to the moonlight
that never comes

TV static hums
like a low prayer
in a godless chapel

we scratch
our names
on telephone poles
like saints
begging to be believed

in alleyways
children paint murals
of uncanny valleys

fables
wear labels
and reach
for Abel’s throat

every lie
is someone’s faith

even the stars
have turned
to watch

but you don’t
need eyes
to read the ruin


aviisevil Jul 15

when I was losing
my mind

and the walls
crashed into the sky

no one noticed

it was painted
in my eyes

just a whisper

until the storms
came knocking

a quiet, steady
decline

while I was losing
my mind

and no one
noticed

I built a castle
from empty bottles

they said
I was too much

said I was pretending
to be blind

not focused enough
to meet the deadline

to gather clothes
and new obsessions

you’re only as good
as your possessions

bury your truth,
your soft confessions

there’s no such thing
as depression

pay attention
to all the lessons

you’re just prose
with no direction

try harder
to make connections

six months
of a better you

will fix the last
twenty

pick better hobbies
and a real profession

maybe they’ll invite you
to be part of the collection

God knows you need
better company, some
standard corrections

with all the mayhem
and recession

it's so hard to
be special

don’t you watch
the news?

you’re only as good
as the things you buy

buy that red dress
you always wanted

and maybe
just maybe

you’ll be enough

for someone
to notice


aviisevil Jun 24

I shall begin this letter to you by writing about myself, obviously, this is as much about you, as it is about me, and that is who I am at times, selfish and caught in my own self but again—this is as much about you as it will be about me, if not more, and I hope it is—I hope that is how I write it, and that is what comes at the end of it.

I rarely remember things, names and places.. I suppose it is because I'm just forgetful and lame but maybe it's because nothing lingers around me enough, settles and finds a home.. finds me as I am—I don't like looking somebody eye to eye, I fear they'll recognise I'm not who I am, see me bare and without my flesh and bones and shadows that hang around me.

But I can look you in the eye without fear of any undoing, I can be myself for a little while, I can let go of the shadows and let my scars and wounds breathe for a little while.. they only know four walls of a room, and they do not see the sky.. but sometimes, most times, I know I can let them in the open with you, safe and guarded.

I respect you, I respect that you laugh with the deepest wounds, I respect that you feel deeply, I respect that you are genuine and that you never stop trying, even if sometimes you cannot see all of this in yourself, and I hope you do, because that is you and that is what I've seen too.

You remember me, in a world that does not know I exist, You are kind to me when you have every reason not to.. and as I said, I don't remember much.. but I remember, deeply, every single time when someone has looked at me, and asked me 'you're sad today aren't you?'

We all need a shoulder to cry on when the world feels heavy and the winds are merciless, I never had a shoulder or even if and when I did, I had to tiptoe around my own tears and whirlwinds inside of me, but you've been more than a shoulder, or an arm or a voice cutting through the dark.. you've been a friend, a soldier, a rock and a pillar... on days when there is nothing, and I'm sinking.. and the world is folding into itself.. I know I'll have a friend just a call away and everything would stop spinning for a moment and more.

If I can be half as good of a friend that you are to me.. I'd be a much better person, that is how good of a friend you are, because that is a part of you, a part that you know well but maybe do not trust enough to see the sky.. you should let it out more, more laughter, more conversations, more of everything, and less of me, a lot less of me, because that is who I am—just four walls and deep darkness, and you deserve the sun and sunsets and people who laugh and are better friends and people.

It is not a declaration of me not wanting this friendship, I am your friend, and I shall be one, as long as I am, because that is the least I can offer with what I am owed to you, and I owe you a lot, a lot of things and gifts and letters and what not.

Thank you for being my friend, a candle in the darkness, a forest in this barren land, monsoon in the summers and a warm blanket in the winter.

You give me hope, and that is all I have to say for now.


to dearest,
you, my friend.


aviisevil Jun 16

don’t let the light
find its way to me—
not yet.

I’ve spent all my strength
making love to the dark.

let it hold me
a little longer.

let it nest in my lungs,
curl through my veins.

let it grow inside me
until I’m ready
to feel again.

let the rain
find my tears,

and the clouds
search for my name.

keep the door
closed.

I want what burns in me
to escape at dawn—
in flames.

don’t let the light
come searching.

let it all
grow wild in me.

until nothing
remains


aviisevil Jun 12

Dil tu kyun ro raha hai
Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai

Dil tu kyun ro raha hai
Jo khona tha, woh tu kho chuka hai

Ek kona hai bas ab tera
Wahin pe raat, wahin tere din
Wahin har saans ko aankhon se gin

Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai
Dil tu aakhir kyun ro raha hai

Tera tha khula asmaan
Teri hi thi naadi, teri vaadiyaan
Tera hi toh tha yeh jahaan
Tujhka tujhse hi tha imtihaan

Aur tu na jaane kya khoj raha tha
Tu kahin toh pahunch raha tha

Ek kona hai bas ab tera
Wahin ab teri har arz sunsaan
Wahin ab dafan har karz, har toofaan

Khud ko khud se hi bhool raha hai
Ab toh veerane mein bhi tu doob raha hai
Tab se ab tak khud se hi jhoojh raha hai

Kya ab bas ek kona hi hai tera?
Dekh, wahan ek phool khila hai
Tere aansuon se seencha
Woh tujhse pooch raha hai —
Tu kyun ro raha hai?

Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai
Jo khona tha, woh kho chuka hai

Ab bhi hai asmaan
Ab bhi woh naadi, woh vaadiyaan
Ab bhi hai yeh jahaan
Tera hi tujhse imtihaan

Tu kya soch raha hai
Sunn zara murshid kya bol raha hai
Kya bas ab ek kona hi hai tera?
Tujhko toh tera Khuda khoj raha hai

Ja, main hoon yahan —
Teri zameer, tera armaan
Teri kami, tera gunah
Tera nazeer, teri panah

Ja, main hoon yahan
Main hoon yahan.


I wrote this poem, or it wrote itself, I'm not sure.
aviisevil Jun 11

someone will remember us
before we're forgotten—

a final ache of memory
lingering
willing itself
to survive

like laughter
like the pain
like summers spent
in the arms of rain

someone will remember us
for who we were
and all we
never became

someone will remember us
though we’ve forgotten ourselves
with no trace left
to mourn

just dust gathering softly
on photographs kept
in a home long forlorn

someone will remember us
someone will remember us
someone will remember us?


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