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

lightness descends
in the head,

as brief visions of yours,
reincarnate within myself

you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion,

an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations

and I read you very slowly,
like one of my own written creations,

for I have been a starving reader
all my life,

and you were finally
an end to my starvation.

sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melt
to eventually freeze
in the sky
a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace

a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,

the fangs of frost
***** the petals of the flowers,
some of them will die this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which we seek,
but at different times of life