In the Madhouses,
everyone's insanity
is up to the brim
and pitch perfect

they are howling's
and scares of restlessness
but nothing is hidden inside.
it's like the soul
possessed by the heart

all are in the neverland
hallucinating on free will,
waiting for eminent death
with open arms,

but then again,
they cannot earn, be social and
breed for deemed to dangerous
for a society as their minds
are too weak and heart too strong.

I sometimes wonder,
where does the madhouses really lie?
within their boundary or outside?

I have seen time lapsing
and slowing,
as I try to hold back
your tears

I wasn't the one,
you knew it but weren't prepared,
like the land that isn't ready for rain
and young for the inevitable death

still we played with fate,
laughed at the fading dreams
for eternity and what extends
and waited for nothing.

Curled up
in a corner

staring at the mossed walls
amidst the light that devours fireflies

the petrichor is now stronger
than all the ales I had

this reverie
the imagery shows no sign of ceasing

and with everything coming back to me
I am ready to stumble again

and fall every step
to write and rewrite

the joy is somewhat incessant
like it always has been.

but when the night sets in,
and you wash the disgust off your face,
the eyes in mirror are just not looking to admire
that pretty face,they ask for dreams once promised
this job is going to save you from everyone
but who is going to save you from yourself?

Just once let the reflections
in the mirror
live and speak
curse and cry
laugh and go complete mad

for I am sure
they are dying to do so
since we started hiding
from ourselves
long ago

true love
if lost,
becomes a story
written by those,
who are afraid of the ending.

stories of these kinds
always give restless nights
to the writers
till the end of their
weak lives.

so if you are writing one now,
write true and bravely
or never write at all.

dust from the all the worlds,
a scarf knitted by a mistress from somewhere,
jar of wine that makes you forget the past,
thirst for the lands unseen,
this was all
what the nomad ever carried.

scriptures from all of the worlds
a letter written in some undecipherable language,
potion that makes you drown in dreams,
curiosity of meeting people never seen,
this was all
what the wise ever amassed.

they never traded stories
they traded in worlds.

Like leaves on sun burnt trees
our ambitions slowly recede,
as the winds of change blow,
are you really ready to let them go?

or would you catch them
as they fall and scatter,
dead may always remain dead
but would it ever matter?

would you not wait for a whole season
for them to grow again?
or just sit infront of the idiot box
silently biting away your pain

Verses

Why go in verses
maintain a rhythm
when the words spill
all over the canvas
fighting for spaces
to conjure meanings
and sometimes feelings
before they finally cease to exist
and get trapped forever,
in pages of the books
left in the empty corners of libraries
to be read or just seen.

Why seek the rhythm
when the world outside
is full of chaos
nothing but Chaos