a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time,
memory is a sweet drizzle,
originating from the clouds of conscience,
an atmosphere made of nostalgia,
and we are the floating planet.
the galaxies are unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life
but I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open,
so was it a deja vu?
or my hands just slipped of this typewriter.
Caress the playful waves,
breathe the snowflakes of this breeze,
stroll the unseen paths carelessly,
in the dreams within your dream,
Kiss the dying horizon,
feel the sand below your feet,
embrace the horses that once rode
the beaches,
just like your old memories
Besmirch the nightmares slowly,
wake up alone in these hallowed nights,
comfort all what is left within yourself,
feel this earth again without the lights
When it all comes back to you,
and I know it will,
write something beautiful about it,
let those waiting pages finally fill.
Lo Behold for the time has come,
to raise the glasses
for the worthy unsung
it is the day they embraced death
as a good old friend, with respect
the rains will dance
and lightning will cry
they did not went alone
in the darkest night
someday sometime one has to leap
with eyes open and heart asleep
let us celebrate the honorable dead
with the brightest faces, tears unshed
Lo behold the time has come
to raise glasses
for the worthy unsung
they couldn’t create a time machine,
it was way to difficult
for the whole world to travel
ahead of or losing the time.
but some created wonderful art and music
or wrote a book and the barriers of time travel
were shattered long ago unnoticed by anyone.
but when the night sets in,
and you wash the disgust off your face,
the eyes in mirror are just not looking to admire
that pretty face,they ask for dreams once promised
this job is going to save you from everyone
but who is going to save you from yourself?
lying on this table
staring at me
is a monk with a pot belly
maybe he wonders
how is my ride to nirvana going
maybe he wonders
as to why instead of hymming a prayer,
i am on a war with the keyboard
maybe he reads the books I kept there
to trace where me heading
or maybe he was tired of everything around
had a hearty laugh and boom..
there was his nirvana.
I have a stack of wishes
neatly placed next to me
each one is a portal
from this far reality
the stack keeps increasing
and so does my desire
to stay far from reality
it ain’t delusional but.
It’s wise I think
to have a loose grip on reality
too much of it sucks the life out,
too less and you’re off the edge
Writings to Heaven 