This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When your muse will gently kiss a faded parchment ,
And give birth to verses
That will keep me awake all night.

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When I will spill more ink than a wounded soldier ,
Writing his last letter back home ,
From the treacherous trenches
Of scarlet love.

But then the trenches I sought refuge in,
Are more treacherous than the rusted bayonet ,
With which he will script ,
The final chapters of his life .

And yet like him ,
If there’s one thing I have come to believe in ,
Then it’s this :
There is more comfort ,
In believing ,
In an unshakable absolute ,
Than there is in hiding ,
Beneath the mills of woolen warmth.
And
There is more naked grief ,
In letting your dreams ,
Be hinged to uncertainties,
Than there is in daring ,
To brave the winter without your warmth.

And yet you wonder?
Why I detest absolutes,
Which need a blanket of uncertainties ,
To survive the chill of a Saturday night ,
A night which as it drags on,
Like a frozen Nicholas sleigh ,
Seems to mock every fiber of hope in my being ,
Fibers that I unravelled to adorn
The dwelling of My absolute.

This isn’t the first Saturday Night when the tale will remain incomplete
Without that innocent question I crave to answer

For you are my absolute ,
Uncertainty.

Once you were a blazing fire,

Undoused by fear or favour,

Fuelled by ideals which our priests decried,

But one day History would savour,


You burnt your way ,through the backwoods of death,

Where the smoky memories, remind us with every breath,

That you were the slayer, of the darkness that came,

But your brightness blinded, our future just the same.


You abandoned us without a trail,

Let your legacy grow beyond stale,

And as the world crumbled without sight,

The blind bickered about the light.


Yet , real is our love to claim,

But fickle is our spark,

Don’t let us be a gamble of cosmic proportions,

In your battle against the dark.

When darkness is a friend you need,
When winter sings you frozen leads ,
When dimming is the world of life ,
Play host not to wisdom's wife.

You approached the chalice of despair,
Stained your memories , fickle but fair,
For when reality left you speechless and astounded,
You rode high on the ***** of abandoned.

The season has changed , but so should we ?
Why would you let broken shackles be ,
Your different self .

Did you try ripping pages from your past,
And drift in the seas of memories,
Without a mast.
Even Oaks shed their leaves once a season,
It's not about regret,
It's about reason.

Like the silent eye of the raging storm,
In a world of demagogues , you defy the norm,
Let the bells of freedom toll for you ,
And paint love in a different hue .

Man ,
Be not a slave to the opinions ,of the chained ,
Recreate the world ,where once love and beauty reigned.

We are knocking on the doors of an era where our generation will come to associate love, romance ,affection and similar terms exclusively with ****** attraction and the desire to be in a relationship.
If only Lord Byron knew that in the very same world which he gifted with the moving verses that no Romantic can ever hope to match, in that same world, albeit in a different and allegedly a more ‘progressive’ era, romanticism would be distorted to an end even his Bohemian ideals would not deem acceptable, then Lord Byron might have hesitated before crafting those magical lines into what they became.
Every time an all knowing , self proclaimed , relationship expert featuring on Page 3 declares that love cannot happen outside a relationship , several graves , deep down in the Lake District of England struggle to be liberated . And truth be told, we could use some liberators. For its time to break the monopoly that ****** attraction has so far exercised on words like love.

And make no mistake folks. This is not merely a question of semantics and ingenuous word play. This is about much more . This is about emotions, rhapsody and their expression. It’s time we asked ourselves several honest questions – Why should we hesitate before saying that we are in love with our friends? Why are we still slaves to unofficial yet unambiguous collective social censors who mandate the boundaries of our expression? Why should we be ashamed to admit reality for what it is and what it should be?

These are difficult questions, difficult but necessary, because the answers lie in those reaches of our heart which we are yet to explore. Go deep enough and search a man’s heart and you will find love, even in the midst of hate .Such is man’s nature. Such is our bond with truth and beauty. But of then of course, there are those, who would rather wear their perpetual masks and seek to distort their own dreams, swallow their own words and mould our world to self imposed barriers.

There are some telling traits that these people share. These people wish to present us with a two dimensional model of the universe of sorts, so as to explain our thoughts and deed. They wish to establish patterns. They wish to connect the dots. They wish to label. They wish to judge . And their wishes are woven with a common fabric of insecurity. A fabric so fragile, that they are afraid of its very existence and hence find it fit to engage in acts of self-gratification that comes at the terrible price of false felicity and illusions. I say it is time we together shattered these illusions like once ideas shattered empires.

In my last dalliance between Parchment and Ink,
I crossed many a line, without a blink;
And like a fading whisper, beckoning your heart,
I bridged two worlds, never meant to be apart.

The fading music of the Brontide;
The cursing of the storm’s bride;
The growing nebulous of our dreams,
Are Symbolic of more than what it seems.

So follow those amorphous puffs of smoke;
Into an unexplored world of caprice;
Where the chrysalis of inhibitions broke;
And desire rode the midnight breeze.

The cliff of epiphany, perched below the lonely sky ,
Played host to divine directions that none dare defy;
But when men conquered the realm of gods,
Forever in Favour of ephemerals, remained the odds.

The game of chance , is a an antique of an age dead;
When questions haunted our mortal head;
And answers were disguised in victories, pyrrhic for most,
The vestiges of which seldom wash off the temporal coast.

Like a fugitive marking his escape,
The candle’s flame flickers, sans shape.
Like a melting heart, it lives its end,
For to exist today is to offend.

So once again thunder strikes, the cliff of old,
The cliff of gibberish  ,where our mortality was sold.
The epiphany echoes through the valley of the doomed,
Where once danger thrived and adventured bloomed.

So,
This City shall burn ,
And so shall I ;
But I’ll wait till I hear its final sighs,
Lest I become a lover , without a mate,
Yet On the crutches I stand of fickle fate.
Now , I hear the cries of the living corpse
As he sheds his skins of mortality
He stands open as he begins his morph
Towards a new reality .