A beautiful lie

The red on the floor,
Attracting notice of folks unknown,
Hides a gory fable of pain.
Flowers dipped in their own blood
Rest on a dusty path,
Dismembered from their nub.
What meets the eye
Is a beautiful lie.

Old petals fly with time,
New ones augment to the unseen woe;
Loneliness deepens.
Some take a while to appreciate,
Others pass an unbothered smile;
The story is about that we cannot see.
What meets the eye,
Is a beautiful lie.

The last page

The last page desires my attention
Much more than the first one;
It wishes to mark the end of a story
And unwind in the full stop’s glory.
The tale pours in;
Reminiscence retards,
Dexterity drives.

In distant lands, two souls reside;
Hidden strings of her mind cascade melody
Into the pores of his unvaried life.
The sky connects them disregarding their boundaries,
A “star-way” builds up to convey untold messages.
She makes rings of smoke with her breath,
His glasses become hazy and a regretful smile unfurls.

Words quivered more than fingers;
The tale ended;
Not a single page remained untouched.
Dexterity faded,
Reminiscence lingered.

Intoxicated

Bewitched by the charm of haze,
I walk through the minutiae of a maze;
My eyes flutter in confusion,
The bizzare thoughts bring on.
The mist of my own mystery clears up;
The enigma of emptiness steals control.

Actions become drunken slaves of Purpose;
Sensibility fails to wipe the ruckus
Off my mind.
Strange it is, stranger it becomes;
Darkness goes deeper than black,
I rejoice in the colours that I lack.
I wish this moment never fades,
I hope I never see the lights again.

Image taken from Pinterest

Another love story

The paths we chose for growing apart,
Tarred us beyond cure.
What I feel is a reflection
Of what disapproval ever meant to me;
What I want is an acceptance,
A truth that you refuse to see.

Look around!
You’ll see hues of known emotions
That my heart fails to hold.
Look beyond!
I’ll show you an image
Of a love where we never grow old.

The artist behind this magnificent art: Subham Paul

Thoughts of a drunken lover

Intoxication prevails;
Deep down, I know of lies,
Mistakes breathing stealthily
Inside the coffin of truth,
Trying to break an illusion:
There is consummation in incompletion.

Expectations are used to their own stabs,
Love desires to indulge in this bloody act,
More often than not.
Insobriety intensifies;
A delusion defying the yardstick of cost,
Churns the body,
Keeping the mind alive.

Imageries

Hiding under a blanket of smoke,
I see darkness embellished with fires
Of those who are hailed as
Monarchs of light at night.
Living corpses walk with clouds
Of tales fading into the sky;
Barely do we notice what trickles down
The corner of their eyes.
Flowers bloom on the graves of unknown folks,
The gray haunts as I walk past them,
Longing not to meet these roads
Again; they follow me.
Carved on the barks of humongous trees,
My fingers perceive grooves of promises,
Names of star-crossed lovers.
I wish them luck and pray for their bond,
Long live their camaraderie,
If not in this world,
In another one, way beyond.

Broken

I am a broken vase,
Not shattered by the wind.
Thrown away by free will,
That is my fate.
The road is unclear,
Smothered in dither.
Yet, I choose my destination
To wash away the cracks
Of Destiny.

I am a broken vase,
Trying to survive,
To put my pieces together,
Only for you.
I know, beauty is long lost,
My marks will stand out
And humiliate me often.
Yet, I will contain your flowers
With utmost pride.

Picture taken from Google images

Reflections

The face tells a beautiful story,
A fantastical lie
That reflections care to ignore.
Fairytales decompose into cheap articles
On trampled newspapers.
Society screams, people shout,
The mirror stands tall,
Notices the unnoticeable,
Predicts the unpredictable,
Surmises hidden predicaments
And chooses to put a check
On reflections,
Only for those
Who are blinded by the sins
Of their deed,
The craving of their famished souls.
Some choose to see
The enthralling beauty
And set aside the rasping truth.
The rest become the mirror themselves
With their faces made of glass
And silver coating on their hearts,
To make sure that
The reflections never reach them.

This is a still from a short film.

Violence

The leaves rustled under the command
Of a known stranger,
The one who lashed the roads,
And drove away a cloud of dust,
Baring them to his harshness, 
And paid a tribute to the Night’s delineation
Of an upheaval in tranquility.

The sores on the exterior vanished
Before moisture could sympathize.
The catastrophe building up inside,
Far away from Sympathy,
Sought help from Empathy,
To which it’s access was denied.
A storm broke out in no time,
The dark Kohl lining agreed to succumb
To the rush of brine.

Unrest

Silence lost in the mystery of yesterday,
Narrates a story;
Surpassing the strict check of your armoured mind
I whisper into your ears,
Of dreamy mornings in the days of yore.
I hope you never heard the sound of my stealthy steps.
Not knowing who you were,
I spent hours basking in the mirth of an unplanned misery.
I hope you never felt the warmth of my palms,
My touch lacked the capacity to stir emotions.
My eyes never revealed anything without your permission,
The shine talked about the mischief of dust.
My lips never broke a promise
Even when I was breaking into pieces,
Dousing myself in the fire of agony,
All by myself.
I just hope that this is just a hope.