Some eyes are deep,
like a lake of drowned bodies,
like a heart sunk in,
like a long winter’s sleep,
Some eyes tell a story,
like a old war veteran,
like a grandmother waiting for children,
like a writer with a past,
Some eyes take you places,
like a kid holding your hands,
like a treasure map in sand,
like a memory you cannot withstand,
And some eyes love,
like a cute kitten’s,
like a playful omen,
like a mysterious showman’s.
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Sometimes we bury our self deep,
and refuse to get out,
the world outside is scary for us,
without a mere doubt,
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All bodies await,
the burning over pyre,
the cycle will go on,
till there is desire,
Amidst the flame and fire,
lives turn to ashes,
the material body is an illusion,
soul is freed in flashes,
The path of life,
ends here,
and new paths unravel,
it is a mystery indeed,
for which the soul travels.
Hot Coffee with chocolate,
a packet of chips,
screw the diet plan,
ignorance is the bliss,
writing is easy,
with food around,
I think better when,
my stomach is sound,
chocolates and cakes,
truffles and shakes,
I now wonder why,
GRRM has such a good waist,
(George R.R.Martin,Writer, A Song of Ice and Fire)
with so much eating,
and keyboard on fire,
i feel the urge to sleep,
my utmost desire,
stuffed till the neck,
with food and love,
the heart sings a rhythm,
so melodious,
as I pass to my dreamy world,
I see words dancing,
all-seeing me at once,
like cute puppies glancing,
I pick the one, whose rhythm matches my heart,
the writing isn’t over,it’s about to start,
as soon as I wake up, keyboard’s again on fire
with words all over from the dreamy world supplier,
A valley somewhere,
cries for the lost soul,
the soul wanders,
in the snow-capped mountains,
over the beautiful lakes,
picks a colourful flower,
amidst the gunshots,
amidst the pain,
be it the freezing wind,
or the incessant rain,
he comes back,
seeing himself lie, bullet-ridden,
with no one to bury,
he keeps the flower,
and ponders,
Heaven was made for everyone,
for those who have love in the heart,
it’s the greed that made me die,
when I could have lived,
at the “Heaven on the Earth.”
Every time I see the mirror,
I see a contrast of images,
I sometimes see,
a kid wandering in the world,
lost in thoughts,
willing to paint the world,
in canvas of words.
And sometimes,
a writer struggling for words,
to paint the world,
in canvas of never seen words,
But the glass,
is a deceiving perception,
it makes us see,
Either
What we don’t have,
or what we need,
never it shows,
the real me.
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Writings to Heaven 