my existence floats
over a river of dream
today I shall drown
Tag Archives: Fiction & Poetry
Numbers and Desolation
We all have been there,
alone and desolated.
With a mutual disregard
even for the infinite tones of the sea.
Counting the uneven days,
when a bowl of unexplainable rage
was refrigerated within the spaces
between the soul and darkness.
The numbers kept us hanging.
The fat man and the little boy,
slipped past some fucking numbers,
leaving behind annihilated dreams
sublimating to the zenith of a nuclear cloud.
The beginning of a countdown
is the recipe for your destruction.
tick-tock, tick-tock
do you feel it?
The Reaper Dies Slowly
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.
Sweet Little Death
Let go of the reins,
for this beloved chariot of life
is in a beautiful shamble.
a one-way trip to drink destruction
is sometimes worth it,
if you just learn to close your eyes
at the right time.
all your swirling horrors,
shall fuse and sublimate at midnight.
you would annihilate every night,
what wasn’t yours.
to create what would never be yours,
for it belongs to this world.
you are an artist,
this is how you evolve.
with sweet little deaths,
and a lifelong acrimony
to see what others refuse to.
Longest Night
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.
Beauty
The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes the child within me.
I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.
I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.
I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.
I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.
I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.
I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.
Writings to Heaven 