Life Poems - Page 6


Becoming myself, pricking the soles
staying alive, frozen, mistless eyes.
I bite my tongue,
chewing the forbidden peel of
what you are.

Can you move with me?
With my atavistic welts?
Emptying yourself of all the poisons,
while the space was shrinking.
The golden gate is silently watching you.

Give me your hands for a quiet journey,
they are shouting to blow the dirty dreams.
Every thing is done for the vanity
of the naked paper
fluttering in the annotated fingers.

Fate of Man

The roses you bring every morning
become an interval between hope and ending.
Thinking about it, impulsively I
contradict God against humanity.

Little murder here and there
of nihilism, sweet smell of faith,
taking any road to reach the climax,
to die for the zeroism.

An outsider becomes the altered hero,
you would find the unimaginable,
lamenting and bleeding, blunting
the eagerness, the spark.

We will inherit the crowned homes,
the brief interlude between crime and award.
The mud, the water, the slugs
will decide the fate of man.


To go beyond global suffering,
find death in blue glacier
of frozen physicals.
Greed of elements, and attached commentary
on the burning, anonymously,
when you were in dock.

The unfolding of the negation starts
softly down the blissful oblivion.
False pretensions keep you alive amidst
the crowd, the only art of rebellion
in the depths of despair.

The arguments were rising every morning,
when all the doors were shut
and sun was hiding behind the hills.
A procession of self-styled prophets
marched in the wrap of chosen blessed
to find the antique
non-movement of the moment!


You are not with yourself today.
Conversation was stopped, from cloud to cloud.
Now you know what you did not want to know.

No longer the pathless destiny,
comes near you, you go towards the
bushes to collect the ash, the burnt out
remains of a theme, a design, a horizon.

In memory of books, which are not read
by anyone now. Pages lay wounded. Black
stones trying to hear the sounds of dawn.
The tremors were increasing in the swampland.

The wolves were in howling rage. A daring
gift of death, tormenting the spirit, human
flesh, you watch through the twilight,
through the terror of betrayal. Each tear drop
sacrifices the eternity.


Immensity of deviation was exploding.
Abruptly my frail frame collapsed.
I did not know the answers. I was lost
in my inner sanctum, full of hollow escapes.

The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating. Not in,
not out. I was blowing up in a burnt out moon,
pure as sin, prodding, writhing,
stuck in tar, melting in hot sun.

As a projection of inner violence, a psychopath
shoots an innocent on the temple, forsaken, revengeful.
No qualms for grazing the godhood,
the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool.

The fairy rings are growing larger and larger,
sanaria shrinking. Epileptic paranoia overpowering
outside, I am sick, but relentless, the shadow disappears
in valley, down the memory. I let go the blurred spirit,
in a fit of rage, standing alone.


Anointment of any prefix was hurting
I started shedding the names.

To fill the void, dialogues were not sufficient.
So many of thorns, without seeing,
in flesh, reading the closed mind, to
reach the inner blue.

After dark bloody spills on the rose petals,
you stagger on white tendons;
cracking the fright, peeling off the truth.
How nervous was the death to tread in.

In the pit, no sound, no hiding.
Deep down was hung a turmoil.
calling a name, when night was sad
and lightning was lifting the clouds.

The city of stones in me, the solar system
the galaxies, were stumbling out in defeat.


For human face of death
umbilical cord need not
extend. The darkness takes care of
unblemished ghost of sun.
Intergalactic scan remains unseared,
trench warfare continues unabashedly.

Between brothers, the greed calls
for incendiary attacks, for total annihilation.
To achieve the illusion, the blurred statement
feeds the imagination. Deaddiction starts
a race. Deafness of the tunnel. The black
knees crawling on coals.

No night was safe from the condemned suicide.
The creator had the absurd designs.
Why not now the confessional stick,
to beat the darkness? Memory of light
becoming stronger. Give me your hand
to reach the ceremonial peak.


A dented version of an old grudge,
blackened lips with an elite song,
your relentless search ends in
a terminal shock, nursing a green wound.

That anguish was still there, and the wild anger
sprawled on hidden fractures, false teeth,
and twisted spy glasses. Sky falling silent
in terrible gloom of centuries.

Blindfolded we are led for a ceremony
of total dedication, drinking opiates
from the cupped hands of a silver god,
with alien innocence and silent submission.

I stare at the changing colors of world
shifting like summer dunes,
dancing on the graves, in dripping
dew of midnight moon, salt of tears.

Give Me

They were burned alive.
Most cherished to me,
betraying the functionality of a system,
interstitial asphyxiation took place.

In the garb of a garlanded saint
a gun booms.
The death is rolled from tongue to tongue.
flying limbs get strung on trees.

A faith was in flames,
somebody leapt from the inferno
with folded hands, to melt into a stone
reaching nowhere.

Non-particles were becoming visible
parting the sky.
Nostalgia was possessed with belief of non-believers,
a thought without a thinker.

I am taking liberty, O God
give me something to live!


In search of a missing clock
he went to the city of a fake encounter.
It was irrelevant to find
the lost tunnel.

There was no street without a rustle.
The sap of tall trees had bloomed
into jaws of death.
He stepped on a land mine
and blew himself
to reach the truth.

And his gift was an
apostate of me.
The tenth day moon will
celebrate my becoming nobody.

The rivals will have
a field day
dancing on my shroud.