there is something
about those wooden chairs
at the Jameson's Bar.

the way they consume the
yellow brights, I believe
they could have consumed the
sultry nights,the spilled whisky,
the cheap tips and the unspoken
stories.

it's like a polished reflective
demon,that asks me to sit on it
and begin the satanic act of
dissolution of liver.

the way it does so,
I might have lost a hundred stories
to it in the most painful nights
I saw and swallowed within, with only ice.

but I never regretted.
nor shall ever be,
for they have read my stories,
when no one ever could.

If the gods do will,
I shall create my own universe
my own earth for everyone

all your anguish and pains,
the cries and the vain,
shall be the red hot core,
that would burn from within,
untouched and unseen
forever for everyone

all the smiles and dreams of everyone
shall be the skies and stars
bright as ever be,
for we all shall fly once
to hold them close,
to embrace them in nights alone
no matter how far,

the memories and voices
of all our beautiful times
shall be the trees and the oceans
whose smells shall come to us,
when the breeze blows,
taking us to a time, we always wanted

and we shall live and die
within ourselves,with memories
with everyone and their lives
like we used to do,
and become memories or oceans,
stars or smiles
and be alive even after death
on this planet.

the fiery sun,
that sets the dichotomy
of the light and the darkness
has been veiled by the clouds
floating murderously grey
in the sky

In a final hope,
to embrace this winter
once again,
I wish for an end
for this bleakness,
for this monotonous silence,

the credulous hearts of people
are dying slowly in absence
of the lacking divinity in the sky
even the cracks in my windows
are thirsty to devour the lights,

as I lie within the blankets
staring the grey abode of the gods
in silence,
my dog comes and sleeps next to me,
and I wait more seeing outside one last time,

it is beautiful though I realize
like all ends are,in the very beginning.

It is up to us to choose,

whether these times we have
are going to be long wasted
and forgotten years,rotten with bigotry
and stinking of nothingness

or whether they shall stand
as a testimony for others to see,
when we burned our minds and souls
as the bright embers on dark howling nights,
to achieve everything we ever wanted
and as the time when we decided
to never ever look up in the skies,
or anyone's eyes
in search of a false hope.

It's somewhere between
the sweaty dead mid-afternoon
and the drowned devoured evenings,
I recover from an existential thought
and from a presumed never ending sleep,

In this chair of the decayed veranda,
the sky has fermented into shades
of blue and red and this bird has perched
into my surroundings,violating my comfort

I try to shoo it away,but it keeps chirping,
it isn't afraid of the things I could do
for a lonesome evening,
with small pesky eyes it stares me,
almost asking for a riddance of my sight
and we are now tangled into this small sphere of universe
fighting on an evening for sight of silence.

we seem to had have too much such evenings,
facing existential crises,sabotaging the living
for a cure of loneliness,
but it's inner self now seems to realize
it is a waste now to wait.
we both like matter and antimatter can't coexist.

it then chirps a final time and flies
unlike what I had thought and believed
unlike the title I have written.
it betrayed me for a truce to exist,
like every other human does.
like we all do.

an abandoned house,
with chronicles of deaths painted on the walls,
in the shadows of it's doom,the reaper lurks,
watches over with eyes of death,
waiting for the omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
and he shall devour the soul

everything the reaper touches,
transcends from space and time,
to spaces between space,
he has never loved a flower,
never held a newborn,
never cried,never laughed

and now he is slowly dying
of all the lives he has taken
the reaper is dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether it is painful
or wonderful
but it's sad.
it should be.

It was never about the stars,
the breeze,the tides
or the ocean

it was about us,
the way we made everything relevant,
the way everything existed,
in the aura of what we had,

we lived in it,
loved our naked realities in it,
everything else just crept in,
just to be alive and exist for us,
so next time you feel a breeze,
or hear the tides,

remember you are with me,
and we shall hold it till eternity.

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