Unlit candles blown out

Swaying drizzle teases the calm exhausted wind,

Street lamps cloud the grey smoky street..

Dogs bark their ancestral songs begotten,

Shadows of dead bodies, lie in piles, rotten.

The mountains echoing the smell of flying shells,

Up in the sky shining fireworks for blood..

The mother sobs silently in the lion’s den,

Grass growth pleading the soldiers to stop.

98 rounds of dismantled landslides,

No roads for the lost to be found..

89 shots of uncried surrenders

Death still tolls the square, round and round..

The mother weeps pale rosy tears,

With chromosomes same as the lost, in moonlit shadow appears..

Thousand children lift her roots from the warm ashened fire,

Weeps she still, with tears, suckling on her pyre.

The mountain mourning in the lost moon behind the clouds,

Sweet smell of sweat and gunpowder over the little streams of blood..

With the loss being restored to the ground and the gain of the same, 

Unheard confessions drizzle and rain.

The mountain in smokes of ghastly white shrouded..

In green repository of barren burnt seeds,

With the fire singing no more for the blind defeated fiend..

Swaying drizzle teases the calm exhausted wind.


My Tea Cup

The uncouth soul has shed it’s tears,

Self pity pities self realization

Of boundaries untouched, beyond,unheard..Clears

The sanctity of sacred humanization.

My Tea has turned dark..My toasts are benumbed,

The cold cascading winds have unturned,

Life has been bereft of non livings…

For life exists premonitered and un-wears skin,

But to live, is not to live within,

The soul that seeks,the body that discovers akin.

No more smoke escapes the hollowness of my cup,

I presume the drink is cold..

So I took it up and lapped like a pup,

The pup drinks same, when I drink old.

Should I endeavour now to make myself anew,

Or drink new tea from same old cup..

Like a blossoming flower devoured by flies,

The cup engulfs me as it looks me in the eyes..

The toast untouched,birds sings the garden..

Light enchanted muses encircle,

And rolls my biscuit there,unlife,

Yet the garden makes her a living,

A harmony of human-life deprived.

My uncouth soul now has no tears,for when before it began..

My cup was full,my toast was warm, but all my soul’s life had ran.

I derieved, deprived and survived…

And now i do breathe sane,

But I can’t deny the fact..That my Tea cup is ‘alive’ again.

On the way.. by the way, out of the way.

Everytime a new face.. blue towers with yellow space in between, open yellow fields of chlorophyll, each face is new, each face is different..Each face in its own space, is true, tracking its own hue..Changing stance at every simulation, each simulacra rousing an unique sensation.. overwhelming cause, overwhelmed effect..Yet everything seems pointless, perfectly imperfect. We have always questioned for the want of a better answer and never have we stopped, that is what has made us move this far, but what if the lighthouse was built not for attracting the sailors to a port but merely alerting them of the perilous edge the port awaits where meets the journey a boundary, a compartment, a fixed space, a fixed historical knowledge, a fixation of certainty, a liminality of quest.. we never tire of sailing cause the ship isn’t ours own…But we seek for new lands because we feel insecure in it,and even when we meet the shore we posit for a better want of lore..We like to believe we are alike to Ulysses, but in the same persuasion we turn like sissyphus, for the want of better answers, for the garb of a finite secured knowledge in infinite persuasion,we come to embody the most practicality of a paradox. 

The compartment is filled with unseen faces, but I see none new..With same form but different contexts, many are same as the same thinking to be the chosen few..Truly nothing is ever new, unless you choose to be you. To be yourself and not to be your’self’ totally..To get into work than to frame into words, to get into paras of unsung verse, to sing no song and Hume not a tune, to not be silent like no birds in June, to not fall prey and fall prey to the act..To not know truth and not see a fact.. to….

*Tring* Tring* Tring* Tring*

The phones are ringing beside me 

Person 1: “yeah I just had tea, yeah I will call you..”

Person 2: ” hello, yeah how are you? How’s your parents?”

Person 3:” no i can’t come today, am going for work to cal”

Person 4:” no babe, we will go next week to your parents house”

Person 5:” …let’s see, i will let you know”


They all go silent after the lighthouse illumination, like me they look outside the window in a no network zone while some stay busy with screen motions, silence is uncomfortable for survival..Stasis is incomprehensible for sustainence, yet compared to the light of the star am seeing now that is dead a few years ago.. the wind that blows these faces, absent there, yet everyone connected by a unit of change, a unit of universe that makes all these true for existence where it be a simulation of hyperreality or truth or a lie..But it exists, whether with a meaning or in a void..It stays in the movement of time for it is time that moves and everything else remains static.. 

*Tringgg* Tringgg*

Everyones phone rings at once oddly now..And they pick up without a greeting with a shock in their eyes ,red awestruck fantocinnian eyes..And suddenly they purse their lips…And with a loud thud, hit each other’s phone in the opposite faces and lets themselves bleed through with smiling happy faces..Finally they are smiling now, and with blood brutally smeared over each expression, each face finally seems new..Same as mine blood stricken face, and we close our eyes and cradle in the jerking compartment like babies lulling to sleep, somebody plays nocturne of Chopin aloud, we pass out..Each new face passes out to come is as new..For in the silence of conscience comes forth the truth of a new symphony, new view..And in our collective sleep, we still keep tight, we still rage till the dying of the night..We ride same on the same race of aftermaths of consciousness…We lay bleeding nirvana, we stay holy, we stay alive…By being only closer to death and not feeling it’s arrival, by only working the shit out and in being become a Being.

“Do be do be do be do be”

-Frank Sinatra