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.

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.

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.

The kiss of the gentleman

Once a while, I would die for a love that is never found,
a love that is totally off the grid and celestially unbound.
We all thrive and live for that sense of peace in heart
and we never know who gives it away from their soulful part.

Here again, I drench myself in the grace of men
here again, my hypocrite self longed for the same.
A night went down with showers over the asbestos sheet
and still staying up are two drunken men taking over the tropical breeze.

They welcomed me to their laid out space with an apple in hand,
an apple so sweet and rare like the love they would show to make me understand.
A bite was all it took to taste the nectar of gentle and careful upbringing
and the fruity juice skipped my heartbeat and felt like a dawn bird’s singing.

My warm and subtle smile crept right into their arid emotional emptiness,
one of the other guy walked up to me and asked all about my dreams and hopes.
As I let him see the unseen glories and stories of my past being near naked,
he let out a smile that overpowered mine with a confronting vibe.

He touched my hand and picked it up close to the air of his grey and dark moustache,
he placed a dry and fragile kiss on my unprepared right clinched fist,
and the smell of the rum covered each other’s shame like a queen hill concealed in mist.
My guilt of being a man took abode in the parched up holes of his lips.

Here again, I found myself loved from the eyes and heart of a stranger
I wish I never find the same love to make my existence feel a little bit stranger.

Choice of lives

Right before the banks of the black ugly river
exists a forest of weed pink flowers that shiver
as the railroad locos glide past the bunch
and the front end engine throws in the punch.

Civilized men ride in those boxes
that travel through stations and million paradoxes.
A trail of steel lines guide them to stand
right aside each men’s greedy dreams at hand.

Men of certain nature glance out of the box
and make up things that are weird as their socks.
Songs run through all of their mind
had the flowers dancing as they left them behind.

To know of this routine morning and night
Butterflies hover with their beauty and might.
Some disheartened men only love them as far
as they stay away like a glistening star.
Let the flowers stay cozy and safe by the side.
Let the hovering butterflies seek refuge and hide.
The men in the boxes have envied the lives
and abnegated the choice of being there, alive.