We have laid to rest
our past
like an afterlife
wrapped with everything
we could get our hands on,
the childhood,
the curiosity,
and the indifference towards
failure
all lying in a single place
left to suffocate alone.
I wonder will they die before us
or after?
true love
if lost,
becomes a story
written by those,
who are afraid of the ending.
stories of these kinds
always give restless nights
to the writers
till the end of their
weak lives.
so if you are writing one now,
write true and bravely
or never write at all.
If we were all blank faces
with no expressions,
no smiles,
not a single sign of life,
just our voice
and a sight
would we still love?
like we all do now?
would our acts matter?
would we feel each others heart?
or seek faces in each other?
till we crash in love.
Dreams are ravenous
for this life of ours
they can’t see it thrown away
or being wasted
they will either devour the monotony from our life
or succumb one day
It’s up to us to decide
whether we lie down to succumb
to this chaos
or join them
every day.
dust from the all the worlds
a scarf knitted by a mistress from somewhere,
jar of wine that makes you forget the past,
thirst for the lands unseen,
this was all
what the nomad ever carried.
scriptures from all of the worlds,
a letter written in some undecipherable launguage,
potion that makes you drown in dreams,
curiosity about people whom he never met,
this was all
what the wise had amassed
whenever they met.
They never traded stories.
They traded worlds.
Standing next to rocks we once carved
trying to remember the etched memories
of the years gone by,
when I had unison of dreams
and nightmares with you.
the wrath of time spared none,
not even the rocks , I see
but I wait
to conjure everything
from these rocks.
there is something about the air
when it is about to rain,
Did you ever feel it?
Writings to Heaven 