In disbelief

She accepted his refusal
But
It squeezed out all the passion from her heart
Sucked in all the life from her soul,
Now she roams zombie-like, undead
And the cold words of people don’t instil shiver in her form
The heat of jealousy doesn’t burn her gut,
Phrases of praise have lost their meaning to her
And now, she is as good as The Thinker
Who sits sculpted, contemplating a single moment
Of ache, loss, and grief
Unaware, of people, admirers and haters
She sits accepting his refusal
Like a statue of stone, in disbelief.

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Unrest

Find me a shade darker than the shadows
of all men, and beasts
Let me wallow in it, let all my agitated senses rest
Lend me a silence that surpasses that of the dead, and decayed
Let no voice be heard, no song be played,
Gift me the isolation that reigns over the stretches of the Thar
And let me the repose of soldiers dead in the war,
Let a bleak ambience take over my shape, and my soul
Make me a shade darker and stranger than the ghosts
Let me be forgotten as those trifle twigs that make up a sparrow’s nest
Find me a cocoon in which like an oblivious worm, I can lay myself to rest.

Poetic longings

Sometimes, after witnessing and experiencing life,
In all its minute glory and mighty shame
It’s completeness and emptiness,
Contemplating on its myriad faces and shapes
That from and deform with the illusion of fleeting time,
In the deepest recesses of my mind
An urge expresses itself,
a longing of being a poet,
Ignorant of all the acceptances and refusals,
An insignificant crack on a further insignificant piece of glass, which makes up the mosaic of existence,
And lose my days in sheer oblivion
Of all substances, and nature
Without a drop of care in my eyes, without a frown of worry between the gap of my brows,
A poet if I could be, I would be
Unaware of all the voes that life is subject to,
And wander, in a stagant posture,
In the expanse of thoughts, which stretch without boundaries
Ever-malleable, birthing and departing
In and from my mind,
An live in eternal tranquility
In the ever expanding confines of the world,
That I device,
If I could be a poet,
I would tread eternally at the seams of eternity

And never give up.

Man or God?

Sitting, hidden amidst maze-like cluster of mountains
Their peaks buried in snow, clad in clouds
Where the only sound is of the heaving breeze,
Heavy, and cold

And every sight is an extension of your shadow,
In a trance that is true, unbroken
Lost in search, of the boundary of your own existence,
all truths, all lies;

In the mountains, hidden from the world
Hermit and warrior, saint and devourer,
The truth in the myth, the secret in the mystery,

Man or god?
You sit stagnant, forever, known
And unknown.

Situation called life

Every day I walk blinded
Thoughts like thick smog
Clad the light in my head,
And as the present turns into past
I lie in wait for the silence
To come and lay me to bed.

Every day pain comes
Like lightning crashes in the rain
Jolts me wide awake,
And as the day slowly transforms into night
I utter all false words of grace
Not for myself but for the world’s sake.

And then this situation called life

Repeats itself

Again, and again; and again.

Stagnant

Under the mellowed shimmer of the winter sun
I stand naked and cold,
Without a mind, a heart, a soul
I stand with my eyes open
As I have, since my adult birth
Through the passing minutes, hours, and days
And through the fleeting seasons, years and decades
Neither have I flinched once in the golden shine of the sun
Nor have I shivered in the chill of the winter breeze
I just stand, amidst people crossing and crashing through streets
I stand, alone amidst the sky, the birds, and the trees
In hope, that this body of stone
Will someday crumble into its ghosts
And wait for nothing, ever more.