a breeze of guilt,
smells like remorse
in the morning
the descending fog camouflages
the slaying of the whispers
in a city this big,
everybody is a slave
skies watch patiently
to choose their meals:
the unfortunate and weaklings.
they are all up from sleep:
nature’s most intelligent creature.
the madness shall now float.
It ain’t a garden
full of roses.
It ain’t an ocean
with humming shores.
It ain’t a waterfall
with raging water.
It ain’t a sky
bleeding crimson.
but it is
a crashing spaceship
manually over-ridden.
a pit of lava,
with miseries of past.
a tornado
engulfing cities.
a subtle rain
entangled with petrichor.
my heart is just a dungeon
with a beautifully dead princess.
stuck in gravity, space
and unwanted timelines
but still breathing the blur,
still living the dream
an oceanless shore
breathes moist vapors
and dreams of voiceless tides.
The beach is now a graveyard;
islands are the tombstones
white condolence flowers:
albatrosses that flew too high.
I sometimes feel sorry
for the rivers at the estuary.
now adjusted to a silence.
A kaleidoscope
with broken mirrors.
Does it feel lonely?
as the lights slice
and bleed from the edges
of the shattered glasses,
corrupting a lifelong symmetry.
Solitary verses,
torn from a stolen diary,
Do they feel lonely?
as they float over a cold river,
to be never seen
or read again.
You, writing there alone,
imagining things never seen.
Do you feel lonely?
when your thoughts ferment into intoxicating verses,
leaving you behind in a monotonous universe
that doesn’t give a shit about your existence.
They tell me I write somewhat ok.
I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.
Why don’t you write something about love, they say?
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells you know; they will love it,
they always relate to it.
I tell him,
I don’t get the vibes out of it.
Love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.
I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain
sometimes.
at least they never pretend.
you are aloof,
as you tread down this slippery
perfumed mud,
embracing the river of life
that has forgotten
changing courses,
a long way time ago.
A flood is a dream for it.
a storm is like an unexpected orgasm.
Still, you tread down happily,
in your custom-made suits
wearing hand-stitched shoes.
You like others,
shall submerge in the sea
near a voiceless estuary
that amasses countless
unspeakable bodies
If only, you would have rattled those cages
and bled in those sharp-edged
rooms, embracing your individuality
then resilience would have blessed you
with fear; and believe me a little fear
with a pair of eyes either blooms to courage
or dawns to a beautiful death.
my existence floats
over a river of dream
today I shall drown
Writings to Heaven 