Wounded are we,
not from the cuts,
neither from scars,
but from words of someone,
now very far,
whose name is a flashback,
of a life dreamt,
and lost,
but somehow,
one gets used to them,
every night.
Tag Archives: life
Path
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.
Poem + Food
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,
Tears of the Valley.(Kashmir)
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.”
The Painting
layers of colour spread over the palette,
some over her tiny hands,
the way she paints with them is beautiful,
only her tiny eyes will understand,
she said I painted mama,
in her favourite dress,
I wish she was alive,
to tell her it was her best.
Glass
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.
Posted from WordPress for Android
The Kid
2014 © Christopher Martin
A Blizzard,
where winds howl,
like a direwolf,
missing his master,
where light is consumed,
even in the layers of white,
no living seen out,
no dead can be seen,
only sheer darkness,
ruling in the cold.
a boy cries strolling,
in the snow,
they say he was lost,
a few years ago,
his cries are not of pain,
but a whimsical laughter,
to bring out the living,
and play in snow,
those who go,
never come back,
but their cries are heard,
like the howlings,
every same day,
the child got lost.
Writings to Heaven 