The regal parade continues to march on.
Many who exist in silent, will reach the end.
Few Spirited ones will depart near the next turn.
Corpses will be shoved by the strapping boots.
Blood stains will rust up on the parched land.
The glorious spectacle is a site to behold.
The regal parade continues to march on.
Disguised in the
hollow curves of
your eloquent words,
do I hear a vicious
hissing ; whispers of
a conniving heart?
Why do I visualize
a serpentine on the rock?
I’m not beguiled by
your deceptive talks.
By the tinkering of your
silver coins.
For I’ve on my hump back
burden of enough winters
to mark a
Devil in a sea of Men.
“ The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
W. B Yeats
Out of ceremonial fires emerged,
tiny amber sparks of soot.
Fires were lit to please the
dormant demigod.
Saintly priest offered one thousand
ablutions to the mighty
demagogue , enthroned
on a regal Peacock Throne.
A neck was twisted, a cord broken,
out of hollow spine;
gushed ruby coloured brooks of blood.
A spectacle of blood-bath assembled
to sacrifice an Innocent at the
altar of a strapping few.
I’ll not let the raven clouds shroud the
pitch darkness of my heart.
I’ll will not give in to the mighty rains to
wash away the salinity of my tears.
Few whispers of amorous love might never
mend my broken heart,
My tears won’t evaporate to the lofty cycles
of the Earths and Sun.
For I’ll not part with my share of pains in
pursuit of temporary gains.
An autumn leaf
you slowly withered
away….
Carried on the chariot
of the cruel winds,
the pigment of life
eventually faded.
Stretched on the pyre
of sandalwood clouds,
you looked peaceful!
Wish could keep a
you a leaf, in a glass jar,
a souvenir forever.
With my hands clasped
in yours, we will
laugh together at
the frivolities of
this world.
RIP my beautiful
Man! RIP!
Once again spiraling down
the bottomless pits of
all-consuming thoughts.
Is it the high tides in the sea
or simply a patch of dark clouds?
May be it’s the Northern winds
curled up by silent thoughts.
May be the dystopic reality or
my aging myopia from whose
prism , I can faintly view the
blurring horizon at whose
mid-point, saffron daylight
ceases into the kohl
darkness of night.
That callous green grin
of that malevolent mouth,
extends for a mile, then takes
a sigh and halts around
the corner at a dead end.
It’ is a pin drop silence,
flanked on both the sides
by cemented houses .
I’ve been told it’s that
raven haired silence,
on whose fringes grey
indifference dwells.
is not a welcome sign
Time has witnessed the many trials
of your life, you often felt a little more
than what you saw. It’s about time my
friend you kneel down to your self,
give yourself a pat on the back, smile
and simply move on.
When you find yourself in the raven hours, remember Tolstoyian words often rings true;
God watches everything but waits for
it’s turn.
Trudging on untrodden paths
in quest of mythical cities and
ancient tombs, leaving behind
familiar wounds and some questions
all under the gaze of azure Skies.
The day we become a history,
the sepia air dampened the lush
green memories,the hollow houses
stood empty while the gleeful
ghosts of the past occupied shallow
graves, that lazy brook saw it all
with her tearful eyes, the azure skies didn’t
budge from their stands while the
ancient trees remained testimonials
of the day we become a history.
