Shaa-inspired lines

Who is here to stay with me?
To swallow my thoughts for real and free.
Who is here to reach for my dreams?
To weave the dull night sky with stars to see.
Who is here to unfold my magic in words?
To read between lines of stories
from my thousand nether worlds.
Who is here to rest under my shade?
Whose smell should I expect to fade?
But I warn you now that my fire would carelessly drown
under the weight of joy another soul has stole and shown.
My dreams would wither, my words would die.
Yet in my thousand nether worlds, I never would have lied.

Give him, God

there are lots of things You can give him, dear God.
Give him blood sucking wars, give him the beauty of stars,
give him the melancholy bristle of wild chrysanthemums in the valley.,
give him a space to smoke up, maybe a quaint quiet alley.
Give him twisted books and the worlds that the authors shook,
give him today, tomorrow and money to borrow.
Give him blotters, give him plotters,
give him friends, give him the sadness that
creeps in when all the love in between beautifully ends.
Give him camphor lights, give him momentary lethal frights,
give him the taste of his mother’s sacred tears,
give him the habit that dazes and amps up his involuntary fears.
Give him anything that you can think of,
give him a life that is split into half and half.
Give him a mask, give him a face
give him gruesome tasks to bring him disgrace.
Give him the right to fly away
and tie his wings for him to stay.
Give him lust to shed his soul apart,
But no! Do not give him a delicate heart.

thoughts to sleep

How many more sleepless nights?
Breathless I have really become
and my dreams no longer remain.
Crazy, I don’t remember any
brief clues of faces or moments.
It is hard to wake up every morning
realizing that I have turned a blind eye to
a very different world out there.

Out there, there could be love
where we could hold hands
and the lines on our palms fit
each others’ so perfectly.
Out there, there could be no identities
where we could be who we really are.
No judgments thrown, no one to hassle and frown.
Out there, there could be timeless peace.
No bombs hurled, and fleshes shredded
are only from lapse of heartbreaks,
seeking the scent and flavor of the ones departed.

But guess what? Once you stick your head out of
that normative sleep, reaching from unfathomable
distances down. A depth too far, where gravity lacks,
and self-inflicted imaginary misery racks.
To figure this out, I ruefully lost my sleep
and guess who turned out to be the horrendous freak?
I am glad that it was finally me. Real, rude and as human as one could be.

Blamer gamer

The mere and bleak existence worried him
feeling half the life has gone away.
Crooked worn out doors closing on him
by itself didn’t send out a ripple of sound anymore.

The hinges were greased and
the disturbance thoughtfully ceased.
Four concrete walls crushed him to a space
of nothingness that scared him to death.
He wished he ran out of his useless breath.

Tools on his desk were unexploited and rusty
and all that mattered didn’t make sense to him anymore.
He slept all day and kept up all night
wishing for a chance of arid nightmares.

Selling away his unstable soul for free
his heart longed to fade out and eternally flee.
The endless bills and disarray of days in months
promised the devil his spirit which he himself found hard to find.
Devil breathed and waited right beneath his bed, brutally kind.

Clothes in his wardrobe smelled like thousand places
yet they belonged nowhere but solely to the closet.
Socks and shoes in the box were worn out with an urge to elope
as the fire in him died and didn’t take them anywhere fine.

His significant love for the moonlight and rainbows fell,
the deceptive rarity of magic revealed the ugly truth as well.
A better day was always from the bygone days of past.
His assumption of dying candles and temporary light
were just one of the million others things basking in the rage of his fight.

The flower vase neither carried the weight of petals
nor did it feel in place like it used to be.
Mirror and the altar of perfume bottles
were seldom used anymore, he didn’t care.

Letting his present to a slow and untimely end
he regretted each second and wanted to apprehend
the promises and the dreams he had for himself.
Reality stuck him and massacred the peace in the air
and he blamed the blameless world for being unfair.

Cobbler and the boy

He hopped too much and he kicked the stone too far
the insole buckle had to rip off and show a scar.
The boy’s steps were conspicuously fiddly now
and his pace back home lost it’s form and trace.

Dirt and rubble kissed the open face of the buckle
while an unconscious grip grew on his lips and knuckle.
The hole in his pocket was always accused for his destitute state
and the absence of coins would teach him a lesson today.

Uneasiness began to creep in and play a part
in the long weary trek down to his abode of heart.
No sign of frustration overpowered the air of the trouble
to rupture his joy or the intriguing sway of the dead twig in hand.

As he crossed the blue tarp bus shed on his way
there was a cobbler packing up his tools at the end of the day.
With scars in face and a half-lit cigarette hanging soft
he looked faintly scary in the dark dusk of the coming nightfall.

His unmindful thoughts ignored the cobbler’s haste for the end
as he rushed through the bus shed and turned right into the bend.
The cobbler’s restless eyes caught a glimpse of his tread
and he dropped the tool-case to dramatically reveal the needles and spool.

He called the boy out with a sharp tone in voice,
sharp as the healing prick of the needle he took as choice.
The boy came back fidgeting all the way and slow
with his head stooped down, legs shivering too.

Rugged left hand of the cobbler held the boy’s ankle tight
and he stripped off the torn sandal with a subtle show of might.
Sharpening the needle on a wet and gleaming rock
he gaped at the cost of the shyness in the boy’s innocent eyes.

Within minutes of awkward silence shared in the space
the cobbler repaired the sandal and kept a grinning face.
He shoved the open-toed footwear into the shivering legs
as the boy’s helpless tears reflected the barefoot cobbler’s dirty foot.

Conscious sinner and the saint

The conscious sinner and the saint crossed paths
to articulate the differences in their existence hitherto.
Questions were dawned on the sinner’s head
for the ways he took in the dreadful course of the tread.

The musings that intrigue the purpose of life
were exchanged for a fraction of a time right then.
The untimely burial of the inconsiderate fears
promised the men the freedom of shedding no tears.

The sinner asked the saint about the meaning of all
that portrays the significance of being humane and vague.
He wished to know of the forms that emotions take-
like ego and farce hopes with all the goodness at stake.

The answers are dispersed as little parts all along the way
you have to look a little deeper and fool your despair.
The sun might exude an eternal glimpse of shine ,
does it stop the clouds from hiding the light of the rays?
Fluff of that ego build up and hide the rawness of love,
but then the winds of yesteryear touch our lives and the clouds up above.
The weight of the egoistic clouds build up to the point of threshold
and they explode with thunder and tears for the lovers to behold.

Did you notice the kid with the paper plane dreams?
The crease in his flyer imperfect and rightfully dull.
What if the plane flew all the way to distant lands?
What if he could never get it again in his hands?
His minimal hopes that it would fall down again
in the thrust of the downdraft wind was considered a fruitful gain.
He longs for the plane to slide down and land
does it make the flight a failure? or does it make him a man?

The stars that align in the dark of the sky
are ghosts of useless million year old suns far away.
But the rage of the burning is still intense to see
and what magic did they take in for letting us be?
Twinkle is a disguise of a beguiling witch
who reveals the gleam to stoop the darkness behind.
But the darkness is a necessity in the cusp of lives
and that is how the charming and deadly light thrives.

After all this tirade, the sinner muted in his own thoughts
wanted to reflect a question back to the wise old saint.
The wise old saint looked bleak and broken right now
for the stories of morals were lies masked as truth somehow.

Lost and found

Days of doom went by since we last met.
I called him up and asked him “Where are you at?”
He said “Come over my man, let me thulp down my meal
and let us hang out to chill our souls down to zeal”

The impatient friend argued with a zest of being rightfully free
to rebut that his mom’s ill claims of him were utterly false as well.
I waited for him outside under the shady midget tree,
he walked out with a smirk and the burden of boredom suddenly fell.

Walking down the aisle of God’s own little cabinet
where shelves are littered with lives of awe.
The empty afternoon street sounded like a clarinet
that muted itself but still letting out a rhythmic claw.

We walked down to the field abundant with green
grasses and cow dungs that reflect the sheen
of the fiery sun that murders our lifted eyes
through sunglasses that seldom polarize.

The first roll of cream was fruitfully smoked
and we listened to indie songs of dazed up hope.
We ranted at each other letting out honest choice of words
we laughed at our own self for being so hopeless and worse.

Then came the shepherd, the old man with a patch-less single eye.
His one empty socket revealing a secret that he can’t hide.
He came close to us with a varnished stick 6 foot long
and he started accusing the world for being so wrong.

No introductions were exchanged and names were sought.
His voice was so weak by grazing the herd dreadfully, we thought.
Supported by the tip of the varnished stick in the ground
he told us about the trouble with a disrupted rupture in sound.

He had six beautiful goats and a bountiful herd of cow
which grazed along the fields for the past few months and now.
A he-goat so manly and possibly a very good meat
was stolen right out of the field last day by rudest bikers across the street.

He wished he could chase and catch those dickhead thieves
and crush them into a pulp to sugar out all the essence of their heists.
His story of the lost goat had no purpose to be told right then
and that is when we figured out how lucky he was, the preposterous zen.

At least he knows what he had lost
and he could blatantly cry it away.
We looked at each other and wondered
what have we lost and what do we have to say?