This vengeful sky is becoming darker
for your defeat brews it more
breathe in this air
let it turn to a slow poison
let it remind you
of the hubris, you held to
let it show you the ashes
of your victories
for when the time comes,
just breathe out and destroy.
An abandoned house,
with the chronicles of death painted on the walls.
In the shadows of its doom, the Reaper lurks
and watches over with merciless eyes.
Waiting for the Omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
for he shall devour the soul,
without a question.
Everything that he touches,
transcends from space and time,
to the spaces between the space.
He has never loved a flower
or held a newborn,
he has never cried or even laughed
and now he is dying slowly.
Of all the lives he has taken,
the Reaper is now slowly dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether It is painful
or whether is beautiful,
but it is sad.
It should be.
It rained that night,
for the air was a sinful blend
of your pleasant smell
and the fresh petrichor.
In the sheets, we drowned for eternity,
like bare mermaids and mermen, making love
in the darkest hours to rage the calmed sea.
We forget our meaningless existences,
the two vagrant souls found a home within each other.
as I traced your curves;
your hair leaned to hide
your shyness from being naked,
as the incessant clouds
hides the modesty of the sky.
For your adorable smile,
I waited until the dawn.
the sunshine crowned your beauty
while gracing your modesty in the morning.
but you disrobed the curtains
and yourself slowly to threw away the crown
of beauty
and at that moment I knew,
It was going to be the longest night of ours.
Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.
this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.
The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.
We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed.
In winter,
when it rains saffron
instead of snow.
an amicable smell
from the dried grasses
after the evening drizzle
and the turmeric laden idols,
that fuses into memories,
like reopening dust laden book,
in the house that greets waves
with eyes closed and an absence
of discord
even souls here burn
and wash away like a dried
incense stick on voyage
to nowhere and everywhere
the cows ring bells
in harmony and unison
there are no beds
but the dogs and humans
sleep alike
in comforts of a ground
that caresses unequivocally
in life and eternal death.
the smell has gone now
now concrete, glasses and woods
stink of success and fervor,
something terrible happened
really terrible.
Romania to Mesopotamia,
through dusted lanes of Egypt,
to wet South American forests,
the shivering spines in Alps,
and eyes watching fireworks
on the lifeless new years,
in countless cities,
our wings were tied,
and sacrificed
in years to come,
on altars of reality and despair,
the pyromancy of ego,
burned them to beautiful ashes,
we transcended dreams,
our souls kissed the promised dreams,
left many untouched,
for existence with reverence,
to survive a reality.
now that very one dream
hides behind mirrors
and stars,
shivers under warmth of blankets,
sips finest whiskey,passing out in blur
it has changed us,
for better or worst,
sadly we can never judge,
ever.
Writings to Heaven 