Fill me up to the brim :
With a dream made up of your voice.
So when the silence finally descends,
at the dead of the night,
I could trace you once again,
like a painter does.
With his bare hands.
Just whisper, when?
Don’t ask why.
Utopia
Tag Archives: Writings
This pandemic has made us work more than before, so for the sake of comfort I revamped my Writing/Work Setup. A mini office for the mini accomplishments .
My Writing/Work Setup
Light
And who do you become?
by swallowing a light deciphered
through a stained glass,
For its crystals are lattices of memory,
that have caressed your ghostly voiceless passages.
It breaks in an afternoon, you never noticed ,
The memory vaporizes
and before you know, it smells as if
someone remembers you in a time you forgot.
Do you become a ghost, savoured by unfiltered light, blinded to the earth by a touch that warms?
Is this how they mix, fear and nostalgia
to a heart that is child to its own and aloof of its lineage?
Confluence
Come have a peek,
these doors of the heart
don’t open by themselves.
Mind the rust,
for some thoughts died quickly
oxidized by the stinking air
of negativity.
They never passed through the heart.
Mind the accumulated dust,
for some thoughts entered and suffocated,
sadly turned to ashes
without even tasting the blood.
Their resurrection is impending.
Mind the mystic music,
for it heals and unifies a few chosen thoughts,
here they mate and produce the progeny of an image,
which I paint with my palette of words.
Mind the warm divine river.
On its bank, I stand and paint the image,
with the air caressing my hair and
the wet grass below my feet.
The Confluence of above all,
is what you are reading,
is what I offer everyday
to the gods and mortals
who I meet in the path
of my destiny.
Taste the Light
With every dream
of those strange colored icicles
and those unimaginable caves.
From the survivals and fallouts
from those painfully realistic
nightmares
and the drowning of the entire
sub-structure of it, in the whole of rum,
to rage against the dying night.
We have flooded the brain,
indebting it of our memories.
it is a sky now, so full of fireworks
it seems like floating nebula of dust and light.
Don’t let it suffocate.
Don’t let a genocide kill what you imagine.
Write and let the light taste the paper.
like it should.
*Rage against the dying night taken from Dylan Thomas’s Poem of the same name*
Northern Lights
Come here,
Sit next to me,
Don’t leave me tonight.
Watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise colored sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds
through mellow howlings.
This cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
Come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow.
Let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.
Don’t leave me tonight,
Come here,
Sit next to me.
Writings to Heaven 