The sun comes out
and the moon’s still there.
Hanging there in its desolate despair.
Mornings were never my type.
I could never see my dark friend die.
It’s scarred eternal surface never heals.
The lover in the night sky says-
“Dear I’ll bring the moon for you.”
Not knowing they both had it in them too.
All the darkness yet all that light,
Fading away into the darkness
is what it exists to do.
The glass half empty
or the glass half full
Doesn’t matter cause the moon’s too far.
Too far for a normal’s reach.
Perhaps that’s why it’s there,
for artists to reach.
Yet,
Most of us have been to the moon.
Because living is beautiful art too.

The clock strikes twelve.
The day is about to die.
This date would never come again.
Another day, lost.
Martyred itself to the power of time.
Another day, wasted and dumped.
No purpose in the dark solitude.
The sun did not shine today.
The moon hid.
Darkness remained the dictator.
It did strike twelve.
But, just to reset itself to zero.
It will strike twelve once and forevermore.
Just to be lost in charcoal, forevermore.
“Pointless”, I said.
“Open your eyes”, he said.
And I woke up for another day in the point-fullness.

The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.

All things work together for good,
I’m told.
Even if that work together is
silver or gold.

People tell me that I’m going crazy.
They’re just lazy,
To figure out the real issue that lies underneath.
Underneath all the perfect gloss and shining sheath.

Maybe I am going crazy- on second thought,
Even then,
It’s working together for good, I guess.
Or are my brain and heart just playing plain ol’ chess.

This is all.
I rest my case.
Cause I don’t even know what’s my home base.
Anymore.

It slowly walked towards me,
Despite all the heavenly pleas.
And held my hand with its scaly dry hand,
With the scythe in the other,
Guaranteed me eternal scourge.
It came with a hood,
Mask covering the face that no gaze has lived to describe.
Its magnificence of the hood shall drive insane.
It lives beyond the mortal plane.
He took me home along with sorrow as a bribe.
Only some can fool it,
Fewer can forever escape.
It has no structure, no shape;
No one lives to take its hit.
Neither thorough luck, nor prayers will come to play.
For it has the final say.
Rustling through the pages of everyone’s fate,
It’s neither early nor late.
It bears a weary look,
And its coming has everyone shook.
All call it unholy, Beelzebub's messenger & devilish
Yet it never fails to abduct with no last wish.
Most fear it,
Only the most gallant open arms to it.
No one can win any blitz.
I let him take me away,
For it will drop me here again.
After, restoring my sanity again.
For it will drop me here again.

Together we wrote our stories
Together we sang our songs.
Our hands clenched in each others’
Hoping aging won’t break bond.
Our hands at first were held tight.
As I played in your lap
& you’d shackle away all my fright.
But I aged as everyone aspires to
But not as I coveted to.
Left me scars
Left me nostalgia
Left me threads
Threads that I kept hidden in a place called memories
Memories some I want to hold on forever
Some not so much
Everyone asked me
How I was
What I was
But I didn’t speak the one truth
The truth that’d shackle all the pains
But no one had the power to listen to it.
That’s what I think.
Or perhaps, I’m too frail to speak about it.
Now I’m too huge for the lap.
It feels like my innocence is sapped.
The songs have lost their melody.
The proses have lost their relevance.
But, I still try to make sense.
Sense of the senseless words I write.
But I fear something is going to bite.
Bite me as bad as a bit has been.
I fear I’ll be like Charlie Sheen.
I say people lack the strength to bear the truth.
But am I the one in ruth?
Nostalgia is all I have.
Yet, it still makes me “the bad”.
No one knows about it.
& no one will.
Well, until all recognise the troubles I’ve seen.
I’m not keen.
I’m not seen.
Nostalgia is my only sin.