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 unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life
I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open
so was it a deja-vu
or my hands just slipped of the typewriter
I feel the weight of summer
arching my back
with droplets of its love.
My t-shirts hate summer,
It makes them nauseous.
The Night burns in dark,
the stars left us long ago.
It is they who hid the warm winds
in unseen alleys of the sky.
I wait for an answer that never
comes.
I wait for a voice never heard.
The night silently leaves.
This vengeful sky is becoming darker
for your defeat brews it more
breathe in this air
let it turn to a slow poison
let it remind you
of the hubris, you held to
let it show you the ashes
of your victories
for when the time comes,
just breathe out and destroy.
It is still cold
than our bare blanket-wrapped bodies can bear anyhow,
shall we cuddle and create the warmth of the sun?
It ain’t a garden
full of roses.
It ain’t an ocean
with humming shores.
It ain’t a waterfall
with raging water.
It ain’t a sky
bleeding crimson.
but it is
a crashing spaceship
manually over-ridden.
a pit of lava,
with miseries of past.
a tornado
engulfing cities.
a subtle rain
entangled with petrichor.
my heart is just a dungeon
with a beautifully dead princess.
stuck in gravity, space
and unwanted timelines
but still breathing the blur,
still living the dream
A kaleidoscope
with broken mirrors.
Does it feel lonely?
as the lights slice
and bleed from the edges
of the shattered glasses,
corrupting a lifelong symmetry.
Solitary verses,
torn from a stolen diary,
Do they feel lonely?
as they float over a cold river,
to be never seen
or read again.
You, writing there alone,
imagining things never seen.
Do you feel lonely?
when your thoughts ferment into intoxicating verses,
leaving you behind in a monotonous universe
that doesn’t give a shit about your existence.
you are aloof,
as you tread down this slippery
perfumed mud,
embracing the river of life
that has forgotten
changing courses,
a long way time ago.
A flood is a dream for it.
a storm is like an unexpected orgasm.
Still, you tread down happily,
in your custom-made suits
wearing hand-stitched shoes.
You like others,
shall submerge in the sea
near a voiceless estuary
that amasses countless
unspeakable bodies
If only, you would have rattled those cages
and bled in those sharp-edged
rooms, embracing your individuality
then resilience would have blessed you
with fear; and believe me a little fear
with a pair of eyes either blooms to courage
or dawns to a beautiful death.
Writings to Heaven 