A kaleidoscope
lying beneath
the silver linings
Of my confessions
And I
Seem to reflect
At all the lies
And truths
Inadvertently
Also, Simultaneously
Destroying the aura of
It's beauty and charm
Unknowingly
Creating a void
Unconsciously letting it out.

Right across the street
With the bells ringing abruptly
The woman she prays
With her fingers crossed
She kneels down on the floor
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails for the unborn children
And the chaos in their afterlives
Next to the church is a bucket of green paint
Behind whitewashed fences
Of the graveyard
And the sparrows fall into the bucket and
Disguise themselves as harbingers of the
Unknown
The lady walks into the confession room
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails about the glory of unrequited soldiers
Prays for their worthy souls
And from behind the sparrows
Fly above the chandeliers
Reach her ears
And whisper continually
"You're dead,
We're not harbingers
We're dead too
This church doesn't exist
Those children are now successful
Those soldiers have been rewarded
You're dead."

He had stopped writing the journals
The pages were smelling of ****
Tramping around in the middle of nowhere
He had lost the utmost necessaties of existence
A paradoxical levity however defined the situation aptly
The truth was found in this surprisingly conventional existence
The officers questioned him about his whereabouts
To which he replied in a peeved tone
"I'd rather not talk about my alibi, I'm living my life my way for sometime now"
Moved about from the corners of the streets
He lay bricks on their expectations
Denuded mountains and a cask full of crippled hopes separated him from his loved ones
He spent his evenings gazing at the indescribable tint of the rainbow
With stardust captivating the left over soul
The tangibility of dreams mocked at his living
Fifty bucks and 2 unlit cigarettes
Was all he had for another months dormancy
The people were curious
They wanted to know what he desired for
All the snowbirds now are afraid of losing their children.

It's been sixteen days
I don't have the courage to pick up a pen
And ink those thousand thoughts
I don't have the right words
I don't have the right thoughts
There are just too many of them
Crowding in my mind
Like a swarm of bees buzzing away killing my soul
They've spun a web in my mind  
But in spite of this rumpus
All that exists is a void
White spaces and fine lines
Half written anecdotes
Two words on the screen
And a blank space
Now my eyes feel a white light passing through them
Those self destructed verses try to find a place
Somewhere
They need to be carved
They need to be read
There's no room for these unwanted thoughts I guess
The teacher says turn to page number 25.

It's the darkened smoke
Glowing over that dark ember skin
The cameras couldn't capture
The pain inflicted upon her brain
A cold facade
Opinions juxtaposed within
Leaving no place for self realisation
Some fine lines of distinction
Between the past and the present
Now became the epitome of her neediness
Segment by segment
Staggering through the walls
Intoxicating itself
Unfolding the crass sensitivities
To the unbothered beings
Lying beside the deadened fireplace
With a book in her hand
Stuck on the prologue
In Spite of knowing the story
The characters have been delusional
The plot was not pragmatic
But she still lies watching the burning fire
With the hope of resurrection
In the parallel world
She's smiling away

You're the dealer
Who stole my possessions
You stood behind that red cupboard
And basked in your glory
You injected the venom
With a slight grin on your face
Purporting to be a master of your words
Incorrigibly lying beneath the rock
You're afraid of being revealed
Your alibi is kept track of
With smoke curling round the corner of your sleeves
Blood dripping down those poisoned ivy vines
You're hiding beneath the tunnel
Making your voice seem approachable
Trying to wind those other people
Into your farcical world
You're presumably sagacious but
You're corrupt.

I've been putting them down on paper
In blue ink without a stop
My mind being the exemplary model
Hands committing the sins
I've counted the number of times
I slain the beasts on those pages
Tear the paper and throw it
Crumpled torn and frayed
With every step I take
The kaleidoscope reflects another mistake
With every ray of light disappearing
The shadows take the place
I sit back in a modest way
Greedy for the ripened fare
A sound playing at one corner of my head
Embodying cognitive dissonance
My fate is warbling
Symmetrically.