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.

This monotony,
of getting up

even the weather is too cold
and murderous grey

sunshine doesn't greets me
birds don't chirp

just white sheets everywhere,
a lifeless bliss

why couldn't we sleep through the winter?
does it lament over our lives?

Dreams are ravenous
for this life of ours

they can't see it thrown away
or being wasted

they will either devour the monotony from our life
or succumb one day

It's up to us to decide
whether we lie down to succumb
to this chaos

or join them
every day.

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.

Standing next to rocks we once carved
trying to remember the etched memories
of the years gone by,

when I had unison of dreams
and nightmares with you.

the wrath of time spared none,
not even the rocks , I see

but I wait
to conjure everything
from these rocks.

there is something about the air
when it is about to rain,

Did you ever feel it?

Lullaby

Sweet melody,
and the rain soaked air
lying on my mother's lap
with absolutely nothing to care

I feel ashamed of myself
and wonder as to why,
where was I even this busy?
how did I forget such a paradise?

I ask her after all this,
why does she love me still?
and she just patted my head with a smile
rest was just eternal bliss.