A Two Liner

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And now that we must love from a distance–without touch, without digging deep in the souls of the others by locking their eyes with our own, without being mesmerized by their laughter and drinking it from a chalice, without playfully toiling with their hair with our fingers, without breathing fire into their hungry deceptive bodies–and now when we must stand in corners and long for touch, now that we have to listen to empty jazz tunes alone, and dance…from a distance, that we have to love from gory distances–now we miss Love and we will keep missing it until the grey macabre stillness takes it. And when we were driven mad by it, we looked away from it. Now we are being driven mad through it–without it. But now, we miss it and we are fools.

Sickness

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The tide was here last night and it left the ruminants of a colorless ocean on the silty beach. The children no longer come out to collect the shells. And the women do not come to lay on their bare backs on the beach while the sun caresses them gently. And neither do the men linger on the nifty shores. Everything seems to be taken up by the tide–the sickness. And there is no laughter anymore. And no one can even cry, for tears are forgotten. And everywhere there are empty streets and empty sheets. And mankind seems lost and it is nowhere to be found. The clubs are empty, the shops, the mosques, the churches, the synagogues…people seem to be wiped away from the face of the earth, perhaps taken in by the sickness.

And in a dusty corner, with an ink of fresh blood, a few lines can be read–by the ghosts of the living street

Today I am taken up by a sickness, It breathed within me
Yet I moved beyond the sun–into the turbulent sea
Because that was one way to go, and another way was to be
And did I want to be? Or did i wish to go
If I could recall the last time I laughed, it wasn’t long ago
Then why could I not feel–the beating of my heart
Every time I was to breathe
And now I will not be able to see
The love-starved faces with their touch-starved bodies
Feasting on emptiness and a livid glee
Because where I am going, a sickness lives
A sickness beyond our average needs

 

Chrome

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Dusk dispatched messages for those who liked to linger in the wild calamitous shores of the Night every time it reached a transition point. And though there were only few–they never opened those messages. For they knew already what Dusk would have to say, they feared what Dusk had to say–and they were tormented.

Sometimes they stayed back and did not cross over to the night. They became ghosts. Sometimes they climbed the broken walls and would glance at the Night. They could not decipher its mysteries and its depth. But neither could Night decipher their longing for the Dusk. So sometimes they would hang back and stay over, within the Dusk–the silent stillness which marred it with its pink, orange and lavender skies and the dead clouds which were as formless as ever. It was then that they would become free.

Dusk would leave messages for those who liked to stay back. But they would not open or read  them–they felt betrayed. How could they not! For they could stare at the Dusk for hours and become immersed within it, becoming one with its slits, with its dismal glory, with its sorrow, its longing and its clouds which were as formless as ever–and Dusk would not stare back.

For it was Dusk–the cross over, the transition, the orifice of the day and night–it could not stay forever. For it was an episode in the grand theater–and it wasn’t final and it wasn’t anything. For it could not linger on around the empty shores of the people and it could not stare at the hollow, slowly turning pages of them–it could not stay back and listen to the silent music of their souls. Dusk was not free. Dusk was not a ghost.

And so–it would dispatch letters and messages which no one would read. And one time during a moment of transition–a passing wind blew one of the messages towards the Man who would stay back every time–staring at the immensity of the coming night, shuddering–with his eyes fixated towards the Sky which was asking questions he did not have the answers to. And the spell was broken momentarily, and he glanced at the letter and a lament of pain escaped him. And that was the last he was seen–on the shores, for he crept silently into the dark abyss of Night, never to be seen again–leaving the Sky broken and alone–as it suddenly took the shape of a question never to change back into the blue vastness.

Two Weary Travelers

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Two weary travelers, set out on a course
Through the damaged roads
And over the dried out sea
Through a vindictive sky
And over the ashy mountains
Two weary travelers…
One was red and the other, green
One wept in euphoria
The other laughed in dread
One had a silent bird sitting on top of their head
The other carried a stick made of lead
One told stories of wars on the moon
The other sang songs about heaven’s gloom
One wore their beating heart on their sleeve
The other displayed their dying soul on their ragged fleece
And on they went, to far off lands
Where no one was awake
And they would ring the bells and leave a trail
Where ever they rode
And on the sunlit tops of hills
There were whispering shadows
Which told of tales of happiness and only
Sadness followed
And one fine day the crows were dancing
When one of the travelers sat down
On a cold bench to never get up
And sat there looking at the sun set
And when the sun was drowned in the dark
The weary traveler had passed
Into the gory light
Now on the train that goes nowhere
One weary traveler sits
Alone with their mind hoping like a bird
Without any feathers
The traveler has now a box which contains a dead heart
Which they wear it on their sleeve to see if it ever would beat
And time will stop moving it’s hands
But the heart will never beat
And one weary traveler sits on the wing of a plane
And flies to the sun as it sets

Bird in my Head

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I sit in a dark room thinking about darkness
I have a glass of blood in my hands
And a bird flies quietly in my head
I do not know why
I will sit here. For hours to come. And minutes and seconds
Thinking about darkness
All the light that I lost
And I cannot look around me
There is a bear which plays the flute
And I do not understand why
There is darkness around me
And I am the light.
And soon I’ll burn myself out
As I burnt my candle turning it into the wildfires
The ghosts play the piano
And I can not dance
But I do not know why
I can hear laughter and people talking
But it must be all in my head
Yet I do not know why

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It’s like the days are not even days any more.
Night isn’t night anymore.
I am not even who I was anymore.
The sky has turned into ash, it isn’t blue anymore
The moon is a black dot, it isn’t the moon anymore
The sea has turned into soot, it isn’t it anymore
The tree upon which I gazed outside
It is not standing there anymore…perhaps it travelled north or towards a dusty gloom
I don’t know anymore
There is so much dark now, I don’t want the light anymore
I loved someone once
I don’t love anymore

Wisp

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Sometimes I walk among the living dead
And I die a thousand lives
And when I come back to life
I talk to them and I laugh with them
And I love them and I fall in love with them
And when I turn back to see
I see all these faces
Of people that I do not know
And I don’t know their stories
Yet they have told me everything
And I heard
But I do not know them
They are strangers
And then there is myself
The strangest of them all
For they have seen me
And never loved me
And never fallen in love
And I am a wisp they all love
I am a stranger whom I do not know about