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.

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St. Valentine’s day

on St.Valentine’s day and boundless
paces away, on a shade ridden park
decorated with rays of hope. Through
green tinted leaves on the tree,
truth of the obvious dusk arrives.

“I’m sorry” he said, brave enough to
face it all. Like a warrior’s son.
No more unknown, for we know his roots.
Cobblestone ground for witness, made
of tears and promises henceforth
at that secret confession space.

Pink of the dusk came too soon,
rays of truth showed the side of leaves.
Son of all things, the glorified one
went down on us, taking the forbidden light
under the lake’s temporary hide;
with majestic pelicans to guard.

And we had to go back home.
Burden-free hearts riding to
eternal goodness for all we know.
Let the cue of music change,
allow the joker to come.
He swishes with a face
too intense and illegible to read
on that god forsaken doctor’s godspeed.

Trading with the devil

Now I wish to trade my soul with the devil-
the guilt-conscious God of the raging presence.
At least he would  give me a fair frigging deal,
he would weigh all my sins to let me know what I truly deserve.

Endless excuses crept through my veins of rushing blood
every time I detached from the plans of today and tomorrow.
Oh lovely friends and lovers, I’m not sorry that I’m shallow.
I’m just a misfit seeking deliverance for the chances I missed.

I wish I stayed up with the thunder and clouds
and drenched myself in the 2 a.m drizzle of barren time.
The terrace we sat at and the clouds we looked up at
are nothing but traces of useless existence left out to bother us all.

Yes I’m funny, but the corners of my lips carry the burden of lies
which were audaciously misused to let all my lovers and friends smile.
Ah! the sins are piled up now and the walls are closing in
while the knob-less doors cage me inside my own little cautious prison.

The key to which is not in the hands of the guard,
but it is with the devil who found me off my guard.
I know he is listening through the pine wood door
to the tone of my confessions with his bloodshot ears.
I know his eyes are widened with a curious smirk
while I rant out the faults of my smug-felt existence.

He offered to throw the key of liberation
through the rusty ironic windows of now.
He asked for my soul that is weary and weak
to link between the key chain and key.
He knew that the key would eventually be lost somewhere
as the link dangled with itself and all its different parts.
Without a soul, without a key and without a heart,
he knew I would call him again to buy my desolate soul back.

The loner’s rusty cage

The soothing sound of the loner’s voice was nowhere to be heard
deprived of regrets and sorrow which he left aloof as choice.
He bore no burden of the possibilities he missed as it seemed fit;
sinfully proud and happy was this sensitive and lovable misfit.

He was scared yet pushed along with possibilities of love
that fed his heart and mind with an urge to give up on life.
Every time he left his past behind running away and fast,
he saw the very essence of him fade away to the distant light.

Godspeed wishes from the least expected folks
felt like curses that are too shameful to carry a veil.
The speed reached a crescendo and left him in tears
as he looked back through their mirrored reflection of the past
to cherish the long gone time turn into fade-away dusts.
No meaning, no reason and no sense to it all,
he promised himself that he would fight against the lovers’ call.

Friends, lovers, siblings and luring enemies of blood
were all lovers of his loneliness and his gruesome part in the world.
Let his voice be cranky and let his worries be heard.
The cage he built for himself are too weak to hold his shattered parts.
If he had a chance to survive as a loner behind the rusty imaginary bars.
He would grow a rash when rested on the iron to leave him with scars.

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.