An Ode to Unwritten Thoughts

Born from a quiver of my unaware heart,
Too abstract yet, to become art,
You danced there, in that hall where only I've been,
But fled before I could grasp what I'd seen,

I squinted to see you, and found no trace,
For you'd slipped, so quick, sans grace,
Gone art thee, from the clasp of my pen,
Never to return to my mental den,

Oh hasty fledglings of words unformed,
Why fly before your wings've formed?
You've run perhaps not to your death,
But to a realm where none shall know your worth,

You're mourned, my friends, oh have you ears?
And shall be, so, for several years,
Not just by me, your writer,
But by all who couldn't read your letters,

You've denied them that nameless pleasure,
That fills their souls when they read you, new and pure,
A moment they'd cherish, over and over,
As their fingers pass over your written inky critters,

Aah you could've had a home forever,
Immortal, you'd reign hearts sincere,
Living not one life but a thousand and more,
Born each time you're read, with renewed fervour,

You'd grow to endless depths like the sea,
All this you'd be, and still sit free,
On page of paper filled with my scrawl,
Ugly in writing but words so beautiful,

Oh words that bring treats to eyes,
That carry feelings through time and space,
Pray answer this pained query,
Do you feel no ounce of the pain you carry?

Eyes that read you, with tears well,
How then, could you leave me so cold?
I scream and run in vain effort,
Only to know you've turned to naught,

I build you a temple in my fickle soul,
And murmur a quiet farewell,
To words that I failed to tell,
And to it, I add my books that fell,

Words that'd give such glee my written lines never could,
Sealing within me and indelible blot,
An unrest that shall forever live on
In the inmost chambers of my within,

To thee, I leave these last few words,
So they may rhyme with the wordless silence,
That succeedes your slip from my flimsy fingers,
And your eternal visit to the dark alleys of forever.

The Walk to Freedom

I fear now, to come out of the chains that hitherto bound me. The feel of the metal link upon my arm has lingered for so long that I have begun to believe that that is the natural state of things.

I fear the natural uncertainties that define life, the choices that have, so far been made for me by someone who used me.. a someone who cared nothing for me, yes but yet, I fear facing them alone. I fear stepping out into the world, for, over time, I had trained myself into finding security in the arms that crushed a tiny portion of me each time. Such is the power of the venom of getting used, I suppose.

I carry the beating of my heart to step into a world I have seen forever but haven't known at all. It is a welcome fear, I see now, as I walk towards the light. A fear I should've had beside this excitement that fills me, years back, when I had the choice to not walk into these chords that bind me today.

But no matter, the past seems like a hazy illusion upon the parchment of time, and the present is clearer than ever, now that my eyes are finally free to see what they wish to, sans the conditioning of the pungent stench that filled my air all these years. Who cares what the past was? I am free now, and will be, for all time to come.

To the Girl I Love

As you walk past, so does my heart,
Struck mute by the person you are,
As it moves on to walk by your side,
Leaving my forgotten self behind,

The smile you gave when you looked at me,
Has frozen my time and my thoughts and knees,
I stand, rapt, in the moment that's passed,
Letting it not move, ever into the past,

To you 'twas another man,
An admirer from that crowded clan,
Whose faces of awe you know too well,
But the pain in their hearts, can you ever tell?

You pride yourself on your humble gait,
Patting yourself for wearing this trait,
For respecting the man who loves you so,
As you move ahead, shining your glow,

Ah, you see the tip of the love I hold,
My want to shower you with comforts and gold,
You see me as a child looking up at you,
But of the saint behind, you have no clue,

You see a man gripped by anticipation vain,
To be hurt by his own love's repercussion,
You hear of his love, and you read his words,
But you shall never know what he truly feels,

He sees a maiden of beauty, yes,
But he stops not, for he sees beyond this,
Yes, I see you, a child, younger than me,
Lost in a world, shimmering in your gleam,

You tell yourself that you've done well,
But you shall never know, in truth, his heart in full,
He's in pain, yes, the one who's smitten,
But he's climbed atop you to a height unknown,

You're lost, my girl, in that world of yours,
Thinking yourself the better among us,
I smile, alone, to myself, now,
For you shall never know that I'm the better one.

Night

As the crimson sun slips beneath the horizon,
And the day fades into a dusky frown,
He rides in, the moon by his side,
Countless stars following his horse's stride,

Nightfall, they say, for the day has fallen,
But hasn't something else, instead, risen?
Lighting a strange lamp that dims the surround,
Clothing in black gowns, all around?

The world sleeps, they say, but is that true?
Are there not, creatures of the night too?
Eyes and ears wide open,
They stare into it, unflinching and firm,

There's a strangeness to these beasts nocturnal,
That stay awake through the dark hours,
They kneel, in a way, to the grandeur of the night,
Paying homage, silent, to silence's might,

Nay even men are awake in these dark hours,
Driven by a promise, or sickness or fear,
They have, then the company of a silent friend,
At whose side, there's a clear mind,

Perhaps the lack of colour in the day's wake,
Leaves nothing to reflect in the mental lake,
Carving a path through the surrounding naught,
Giving rise to great, creative thought,

It's a holy time, unlike the old say,
Hosting the silence one needs, to pray,
Giving away hours, for those who care,
Sans distraction of even the slightest kind,

And yet, to most, it's a blanket unique,
Knitted, close, by the Mother Compassionate,
To pull a little closer as we turn, cosy, within,
Lost in the comfort of sleep's realm,

But whether you're awake or sleeping,
Know this, that you're watched by the grand King,
As even the sun's clock stops its ticky wail,
All to preserve the silent prevail,
Shutting its eyes well and tight,
Letting blow the eerie night.

A Midnight Monologue

Dear world, have you slept? I have not*.

How do you manage to sleep so easily, worried only by work, a few bills and perhaps some pills?

How is it that you do not hear the hooves of death, gallopping towards you in the form of countless honks, short slips and what not? Do you not feel His touch when you slip through his fingers so easily? Perhaps, like the touch of your spouse, it has only become too familiar to even matter? Do you not read of His warning whispers that escape his black lips and spill over the news and coffee table discussions, where that man or woman, just like yourself was killed? Intelligent that you are, didn't you realise that He was talking to you?? To you in particular, indicating to you to do whatever you seek to, with this nameless life you've been given?

They write books about finding true meaning, but has anyone even stopped to find it? Has anyone truly figured it all out? No, I am not talking about "having it all figured out" - that pathetic usage they have, to imply having a "concrete" plan to keep yourself busy for the next few weeks - a plan that's likely to work out if He chooses to not intervene. No, this makes no sense - a career/ A spouse? Children? And then what? What new construct will you come up with, to fill your ever-expanding, shapeless mind until it outgrows it, feasting upon the endless fodder of boredom that it secretes for itself, that pushes it to seek the next "big step" or, well, rents itself out to that despicable one to set his workshop up - aah, even trees might stop growing, this pathetic mind shall never..

Perhaps there's a way to see this - to see beyond what the senses can perceive, to realise something with that formless instinct, that conscience that feels so real despite it not being plotted by any book of pure science, whose scent is occasionally caught by a book or two on philosophy, in stories of passion and greatness, and in narrations of great ones. Perhaps there is a way to find out if there is indeed a God - a being to look up to, who shall bestow a relaxed means to walk into one's end. Perhaps one or more of these religious texts might actually indicate a way to know this for sure, than to merely believe, but hey, isn't a lifetime too short?

Of what use is science, and poetry that fill pages, gratifying an ego that isn't the true source of its content, that merely takes credit for another, humble soul's work, as an author's name ad photograph do, upon a book's cover, that can print his words so well, but not the soul that trapped them from the Nameless Source. What surety can science and poetry give, that is more obvious than that death shall come? Ah, these might articulate the ignorance that our souls harbour, that threaten our very being to shiver at the dark edge of life - but life, so cruel, so cold, forgets the need to be rational when one is hungry, when one is desperate, when one is cold and scared and pulls one back into this heap of chaos and fries their souls there in an instant, soaking them 'til the last stain of death's thought dwells in their loud minds. And if that doesn't happen, it weightens the lids of the eyes as no book on science has ever fathomed and ushers sleep like no drug could ever, establishing its profound mastery over every thread that puts the mind out of, and man into action, bringing him into that invisible line that all are meant to toe.

And yet, you argue that there isn't fate, don't you, my dear world? That your life is a garden laid open before you to pluck flowers matching that scent of passion you've known since birth. Tell me, when did you choose this path? Was it not sewed into that black part of your heart that you haven't visited yet, long before you were born into the mercilessness of this world? Tell me, do you choose the desire or the drive to pursue it? Do you choose what you like, what you don't? You blame what you don't control, on lifeless chemicals and hormones that are secreted by this critter you dwell in, urging your mental throat to swallow all that is labelled "science", spitting out that which doesn't satisfy your highly flawed, conditional rationality. I wish to laugh at you, but how different am I?

I know to not trust, and yet I wish so hard to - to fall in love over and over again with all the colours of this ailing world, to be hit upon by waves that can deform my jaw forever - aah, what can I do, but let my eyes well in tears?

And at long last, I see what is truly mine - the choice to let something overwhelm me - I get to pick and choose the waves that shall gobble me up, and I stand for them as they come, unflinching, unblinking, looking straight into bubbles that seem so much like eyes, but alas, they know not, that they are feasting upon me such, for they are lifeless indeed.

And yet, I cry, my face wet with the tears of today - not for them, not for another to see - perhaps not even for myself, but because I know I can, and it is truly gratifying to. As I wring my dripping wet heart thus, it lightens, letting its salty water flow down my eyes till I can see nothing - and I see that I can still see, not with my eyes, but with the heart that's lighter. So I let them flow as I lie upon my pillow, now wet with all that my eyes could offer and in it, I sink a little deeper, hoping to dive even deeper into this soul of mine, but alas! I see now that I've been tricked again, as my eyelids feel heavier. It's hard to know that I shan't remember this musing nor this treachery when the sun rises in the morn', when a fresh day shall begin with the feeling of a fresh birth, oblivious, clueless of the experiences of the past, albeit with vague memories that shall come by to remind me of the most trivial things - a table at a restaurant or a bench on my way to work. I seek to pick a pen to write down the map to this state, but am I not lost in this maze of thoughts? If I had sat, dropping pebbles or breadcrumbs on the solitary path I took, would I have even managed to reach here?

Seeing no other alternative, nor the drive to hold my pen, I let go, curling a little, bringing my limbs a little closer within my sheets and dipping my heavy head onto the salty wetness of my pillow, hoping if I curl up so, I may remain within this sacred haven of my soul a little longer for whatever it's worth before I'm pushed into the pointless world of dreams where the mind alone matters - or worse, into the world of waking where even that doesn't.