Grappling with Life

Cast into a life sans choice,

Into a world of vibrant sights and sounds,

Of infinite detail and endless wonder,

I lie, astonished, as I grapple with reality,

I look down to find limbs that move,

A critter that remembers and somehow, learns too,

Surrounded by others who seem to look the same, 

But bothered least by how they came to be,

Puzzled at how they're unfazed by it all, 

I stare in surprise while I join their line, 

And as I prepare to choose to start, 

I see that some time's already gone past, 

And so I drape my clothes and polish my shoes,

As I pack my lunch and head to leave,

I wonder if, perhaps they're right, the way they see,

For they do indeed, seem to know it all,

And before I find words to speak,

And grasp, slowly, the ways of the world,

I'm taught to act, to struggle and to achieve,

To compete with others but make friends still,

That I must strive to have that one thing I don't, 

No matter what all I had to lose on the way, 

Encouraged to learn from those that have it, 

Praying no heed to all that they possess not,

Threatened by a clock that ticks sans mercy,

I run after goals of degrees and jobs,

Enticed by a promise of peace later,

In exchange for my time and strength,

And before I know it, I'm caught in a loop,

Of putting out fires and ticking off lists,

To clear off tasks and things I should do,

So that, one day, I can live for myself,

To return to a peace I could've always embraced,

For it's walked by my side all these years,

Always present but not making any fuss,

Nor receiving from me, the slightest look,

A peace where I could finally wonder,

And ask the question, that I've cast for later,

Questions that were prudent but are now a burden,

For I was always told that other things matter more,

But as I skim through days, I wonder, 

If I'm the only one that carries the burden of these questions, 

Dragging through life, but troubled by doubt,

As pointless fears and duties steal my attention away,

As I live through time, I look around to see,

Results of my actions, both tangible and not,

Even lives, created by desire planted in my soul,

That I protect, driven by instinct that I claim as choice,

Focus gets pulled asunder by objects even more,

While I fight on to return to an imagined centre,

Looking back to gather memories of accomplishment,

That I can weave a story around and then learn to take pride in,

And as I live on, dragging my doubts along,

I wonder, as I pen my song,

If perhaps no response can truly answer,

Perhaps holier than the answer are the questions themselves,

And so, I record these beats of my heart,

For those who connect, to nod along, 

Penning down each turn that my heart takes, 

Upon a map of thought that turns to art, 

For this is perhaps the holiest I can do,

To offer to life that birthed my soul,

As the devout would lift a handful of water, 

To offer it back into the river itself.

A Goodbye to Tejaskumar Bharsakale

Bound on a journey headed to the South of this land,

He received signs of an impending bond,

Forged both by links of close friendships,

And also the impending signing of sheets,

Fortune hit as he got one and not the other,

Leading to nexuses that only got stronger,

Through knots cast by food and work,

And by his inimitable ability to cook,

Memories grew as days flew by,

Caught in pictures that he took on the fly,

Through strolls after lunch and at Shiva's hill,

And of tales of home and of a cousin's betrothal,

And before he knew, change ushered in,

A change that'd benefit his kith and kin,

And so, a year ahead of his promised stay,

He began his return, his journey away.

A Writer's Angst

"We all play roles. I do too. And our roles demand us to do certain things. I have to do them too. I just try to loosen that a bit and not let these compulsions of my role define the entirety of who I am" - Words

"I reluctantly take credit because I was the first to hear from within, to come in contact with and to note down these words that wrote themselves" - The Poet

I watch, with a sideglance, at the words,
That I found, so proudly, I could manipulate,
Flexing them like balls of clay, teasing them about,
With fingers that could keep up with thoughts,
Slowing them down though, to beautify articulation,

I wonder, as I add a kick to a line,
My vanity silencing the voice of doubt,
If this is truly an attempt to capture wisps of my soul,
Or perhaps just a tool, to capture others',

While my wonderful readers read with love,
Nodding, to affirm with their heads and soul,
That I'd put into words what they too felt,
Appreciating subtlety that's captured in ink,

Spelt out exactly as they knew, within,
As if there's a smooth link between their heart and my digits,
I still wonder, as I'd smile at praise,
If my works would be purer if untainted by grammar and style,

Do I claim the praise of Language Herself,
When in truth, I'm just a channel for her flow,
Perhaps the best I can do is work with the ways of the world,
Honest only until the ceiling hits my head,

I talk and I write, to connect and to document,
Little breadcrumbs like Hansel, to retrace the roadless path to my soul,
And write some more, in exhaustion, to lessen the burden,
Of thoughts and feelings that haunt my head,

Do I love them, these words that I note with such fervour?
Or do I ask to bury them to never dig up again?
For, after all do I not seek to be rid,
Of thoughts and feelings I'd picked up on the way,

Thoughts that I've held, so long and hard,
That they've scarred the fingers that now hold my pen,
That when I seek to put them down on a sheet,
I cannot but mix a piece of my soul,

Thoughts solidified over years, over decades,
That I've forgotten, were only collected, not created,
That they shall leave behind a deep imprint on my hands,
That I wish to be free from having to remember,

Yes, I did seek some relief indeed,
But not entirely from feelings that I felt with love,
I sought merely to record so I didn't have to carry,
And to make space in me so I could revisit these in peace,

And once I start writing, I become free half way through,
With more to say but no energy to write,
And as my soul begs to empty itself, my hand wishes to stop,
For there's no fuel left to make it move

Oh who knew I'd need such pain to write,
That my soul had to boil for words to spill out?

With one hand stabbing my heart while the other wrote,

So it was blood, not ink that filled my pen,

Who knew, that there's a path between the heart and words,

That, to pump words through this mapless path,

One most spend a part of one's might,

Trampling other thoughts on the way,

And when there isn't more to fill my pen,
That a thought would suffocate on it's way to my nib,
Desperate, I attempt to keep a dying thought alive,
I stab it before it ripens full,

To note an idea that's still a child,
I desecrate its supple, rosy skin,
Sinning, heartless beyond any way I can atone,
And i nail it to my sheets, thin and weak,

Stabbing the bliss of the present moment,
In a frenzied attempt to not let it pass,
I stain my pages that can never be washed,
Only to find that I've strangled more thoughts,

Oh I see I should let these grow full,
And let them flow to make it count,
And as I pause to record this thought,
I kill another as I note it down,

Oh I thought I was a saviour, a harmless chronicler,
Of those that're felt by man within,
Assigning names to those subtle twitches,
That're nameless yet deeper than language can ever see,

And now, as I look upon my bloody mess,
I see I'm a helpless surgeon,
Trying to do the best he can,
Doing my best with what I have,

I protect these thoughts without reading another,
Lest that destroys what's already within,
I try, with all my might to save what's with me,
But failing, at times, for I'm only a man,

Unable to stop, I try still,
Recording more by failing still,
While expressing, each word a tiny coffin of a moment,
For each one is always of a foregone instant.

Nach vielen Jahren

Deine Augen siehen mir schöner aus,
Deine Stimme klingt leichter,
Ich finde dich schöner, nein am schönsten,
Als wir vor so vielen Jahren uns trafen,

Ich denke, ich sei gleichmütig,
Aber ich fühle mich sehr fröhlich,
Ich finde nur Dunkelheit in meiner Seele,
Aber springen meine Beine hoch,

Mein Herz fühlt sich ganz froh,
Aber gibt es schmerz irgendwo,
Hab' ich gedacht dass alles gleich war,
Aber ist es vielleicht nicht so,

Ich liebe mich mehr als bevor,
Mir Klingt mein Name süßer,
Wie ich den neu höre,

Ich weiß endlich wie ich wirklich heiße,
Weil du mich nach Jahren gerufen hast.

Written on 26th Nov 2020 at 2:19am

Zum ruhigen Regen

Durch die Stille Nacht, während die Straße schläft,
Regnest du, schön und rein,
Gucke ich, schlaflos und allein,
Ahnungslos dass jemand dich sieht,

Ich wende mich, um jemandem zu zeigen,
Aber es gibt keinen,
Also sehe ich nach, Still und in Ruhe,
Wie Zeit steht diesem Moment,

Ah, ich will deine Schöne zu jemand sagen,
Aber auch will ich in diesem Moment bleiben,
Deshalb stehe ich in lauter Ruhe,
Uns spreche leichte Wörte binnen meine Seele,

Mein Gerät kann diese Moment nicht speichern,
Es sagt dass es ist zu dunkel, zu grau,
Aber ich sehe dass zu perfekt bist,
Also fange ich dich im meiner Herz ein,

Oh warum tanzt zu wenn niemand sieht?
Auf einer leeren Straße und in meinem Kopf,
Wenn nur meinen Herzschlag spielt,
Als Musik für dich,

Oh Leute tanzen mehr wenn Musik spielt,
Hier schlägt mein Herz schneller wegen deines Tanz(es),
Und du füllst meine Seele bis zum Rand,
Und regnest noch mehr,

Wie leicht sind deine Tropfen?
Weil ich höre nicht wenn sie unten fallen,
Habe ich etwas gehört?
Nein, jetzt mein Herz dir gehört,

Ich merke jetzt warum du nur mit mir triffst,
Und lässt deine Tropfen fallen so leicht,
Wenn ich mit Kuli meine Gefühl schreibe,
Weil ich halte sie wie sonst kein Gerät kann,

Meine Augen schließen langsam jetzt,
Und ich kann deine Schönheit nicht mehr sehen,
Und Zeit steht aus von ihrer Schlaf,
Und schlafe ich langsam ein,

Bevor wir uns Abschied nehmen,
Ich will zu dir etwas sagen,
Danke, danke und vielen Dank,
Weil ich vergessen habe mein Leid und krank.

Eine vergebliche Suche

Ich kann nach keinem Lehrer gehen,
Und kann nur zu Hause bleiben,
Wo ich warte und warte und viel mehr warte,
Wie ich meinem ganzen Leben gewartet habe,

Sie sagen dass ich muss Gott in meiner Seele suchen,

Dass ich muss ihn in meiner Seele schauen,

Ich las viel Buecher aber höre ihn nicht,

Ich suchte auch viel aber sehe ihn nicht,

In dem hinten von der Dunkelheit sagt uns einer,

In unserem Gefuehl von 'ich' sagt noch einer,

Wenn du armen hilfst sagen andere,

Und wenn du ihn rufst sagen noch andere,

Er wird nicht gesehen, sagen viele,

Dass man kann ihn nur fühlen, sagen diese,

Aber jeden Tag wenn ich schließe meinem Augen mit viel Hoffnung,

Sehe ich nur Dunkelheit in mir und sehe noch nichts,

Wenn ich suche ihn in meinen Gefuehlen,

Fuehle ich nur die Tropfen die fallen von meinen Augen.

The Voice Within

Woken, from oblivion, with a racing heart,

By a voice, subtle, that speaks from within,

He rises, squinting his heavy eyes,

And strains his ears to hear,

He struggles to hear what it means to say,

For he has no choice but to hear it,

Inescapable is that which the soul speaks,

For it speaks from behind the ears that one can shut,

And so he defers to this call, this incessant speech,

Shutting himself from all else,

And the voice of the others grow dim and soft,

As he slips further within, in his hunt for this,

He finds it's the voice of his heart's desires,

Such desires that feel so pure, so real,

Desires, inescapable, that only grow stronger,

Desires that promise to become firm purpose,

The kind of purpose that life must hold on, to live,

Purpose that moulds, that shapes that life itself,

Thus drawn, he listens with all his heart,

To the intimate sounds of its own beats,

Kept awake by this loud whisper,

His eyes stay wide open behind closed sheets,

Dreaming bright colours, blind to the dark,

While this voice, now clear, begins to sing,

It's a moment of pride, of triumph, a win,

When he finally hears all that it says,

For his pursuit, his dive, his long conquest,

Has finally ended, yielding its fruits,

Knowing he's listening, the voice speaks more,

Decorating, flowery his once vague, wordless wish,

Ah, it's a sight to see him thus,

Rapt, like the man, looking, dazed, into his lover's eyes,

It's a pride to see a man win thus,

Losing himself in the search for his soul,

Nay he's not lost, for he's found himself,

The one who hears, clear, this voice,

Or so they say, who haven't known truth,

And who haven't heard a sound within,

It's strange how a win blinds one,

Like when a thought is spoken, another, within, dies,

For it's hard to believe that a search for one's soul,

Has ended forever, with the sound of a voice,

For, no matter what it means to say,

It's still a mere expression of a mouth not seen,

Despite being intelligent, deep and aligned,

And aware of what he truly wants,

It's a pity he sees now,

Merely a voice, albeit within,

He stops when he's heard the words in its voice,

And doesn't seek to find the source of its sound,

Perhaps he's tired, for he's searched for so long,

And chooses to stop, when he's found a little gold,

Ah, they say it's truth, the voice of the soul,

But is that all that comes from the chambers of the heart,

And if one must judge and measure even words from within,

How deep could truth, really be hidden?

Why does Nature seek to have its way,

By hiding a man's soul, deep,

Behind desire that takes so long to find,

And forsaking him on an eternal search for it,

And as per its ruthless ploy, he searches,

In the desperate hope to quench his dissatisfaction,

And, digging, deep enough to find desire, mistaking it for himself,

He feels it's his own, like the rest of his herd,

Vowing to obey, to fulfil its whim,

Oh, how can a voice, be it without or within,

Be yours, my friend, unless you choose its words?

Tricked thus, by the Father who hides,

Within the soul whence speaks this tongue,

He walks, naive, to do its bidding,

Claiming to act out of free will, independent,

And so he nods his head in rhythm with this song,

Humming along, now and then,

And as it grows louder within,

He dances, in a trance, to its compelling tunes,

He waltzes in circles, but spirals in,

Drawn to the centre of a field unknown,

Bereft of reason that he once prized,

Defending, somehow, this new trend,

He nods, in a trance, to the whims of this voice,

Cheered by a crowd that once reasoned with him,

They all rejoice, imploring that he speak his mind,

Twisting lines from the wise, the fools, even his own,

Aah, it's strange, this world of ours,

That fights for bread on hungry nights,

Speaks words of reason to earn nods,

And feigns logic when their bellies are full,

And now, when a thirst rises, of a different kind,

Logic dissolves in hungry preference,

And he moves, swift and quiet, fuelled by intent,

Lest reason or society attempt to foil his ploy,

Propelled by this desire placed by an unknown hand,

In the innermost chambers of his soul,

He's stirred into action to fulfill the quest,

Like all the others, to find peace,

It's strange to see how the momentum within,

Defies, easily, the science without,

With inspiration building from within one,

Sans the need for another's hand,

Know, my friend, that behind this voice,

Could lie, your soul, untouched and pure,

Who knows, there's more perhaps, hidden beneath,

The depth that's soaked in darkness sans light,

Like life, I'm sure, there's both brightness and dark,

Treasures, hidden, alongside horrors,

Doors that, when opened, could change who you seem,

And somewhere there, your soul too,

Know my friend, like you know of the world,

The good and the bad that the depth within, holds,

Know to dig deep to know true joy,

But know ye more, to stop,

At the level of depth that grants you peace.

Hopeless

Flushed outwards from a realm holier,
I lie 'pon the surface of a depth I once rejoiced,
My heart filled with untold agony,
That fills my eyes with tears,

I wake, heavier, day after day,
Clinging onto the thinning rope of hope,
As the pain of being forsaken weighs me down,
And the nimble heart grows brittle and dry,

They see me dance and deem it joy,
But know not, in truth, that I writhe in pain,
Unable to share the pain I feel,
I drag my corpse through the tunnel of the day,

My nights are dark, long and damp,
Getting colder each day, on my poor skin,
And yet, I pull my sheets and sing,
To distract my soul, so I live another day,

Help will come but there's time still,
Time that's valuable, yet time to kill,
So come my friend, sit by this fire with me,
Let's share this warmth and sing a song.

The Song

As the grim bells of doom grow louder,
The heart gets ready at last, to turn inwards,
Each second readier than it was the last,
To accept the arrival of impending death,

And as the soul accepts its dark fate,
Sets in, within, a tranquil state,
The eerie silence of terror unclouds,
Giving way to peace that's loud,

And within that silence, I hear a whisper,
A feeble sound, a squeak, a faint murmur,
Listening further, I found it was a hum,
The sound of a tune I'd heard since I was young,

'Twas familiar, yet new, this tune, this song,
A tune I hadn't heard, but my soul knew,
Like that cafe you'd walked past, but never noticed,
Like the letters of a word you'd never observed,

This song, I found, felt cool and warm,
Cushioning my angst in this dark, lonely realm,
It soothed my soul and eased my pain,
Whispering words of solace and calm,

I saw, now, this was the song of my angels,
Locked within the deepest chambers of my soul,
It'd sung ceaseless, throughout my life,
But hidden by the noises of the without's strife,

I see it's played, this tune sacred,
Beside the beats of my now slowing heart,
And while death draws closer than ever,
This song, my song, plays louder,

I wished I'd stopped, when alive, for a while,
Paused, for a moment during my busy life,
I wished I'd heard this song divine,
So it'd have made me feel less alone,

And now, I sent my thanks to the Divine,
For bringing my focus to this gentle sound,
For now, as darkness closes in, ruthless and fast,
My wounds hurt less and I'm at peace at last

The Object of Desire

I stagger, dazed at the beauty I behold,
Rapt, in that beauty of which I've only heard,
My heart throbs in leashless desire,
As my feet move, unhighed, towards her,

She holds something that draws me close,
An object that pulls me into a pit bottomless,
It's something unique, that which she holds,
And it makes her what she is, to my eyes,

And I wonder, as I'm pulled closer,
If I've fallen for it or for her,
Do I see her for all she is,
Or am I blind to all but this?

Am I limiting all that she is, to a small possession,
Be it her beauty, her body, or that great profession?
Should I see her as that dark form she sees when she pictures herself?
Or as even more, the parts even she doesn't recognise, of her self?

And then, as I come close, I see,clear,
That none can see another, no matter how near,
I chose to stick to what she says of her,
And wait, by her lips, conscious of what she utters,

I swear to learn from words and not,
And learn of her, the way to be known she sought,
After all, a person sees only a part of even their self,
And in love, I ought to love what I liked and not,

And as I wonder, holding my gaze,
My thoughts shining through the darkness of my daze,
I see, clear, I'd put myself in her hands,
Be they arms of care or evil clutches,

But alas, she sees not me, nor my soul,
For she's lost, in the pursuit of another,
I watch, hurt, as she staggers like me,
Struggling to look and be the best she can be,

And then, when she courts, she offers him her soul,
And the object I sought stands beside others baring its all,
She bears him her soul, awaiting his call,
Her arms outstretched, seeking to love his all,

And then I see, now vivid and clear,
That she's no angel, but not evil either,
That we're both toys of a soulless desire,
Dancing to the tunes of the music of nature.

Fear Not

Fear not, my friend, when your legs give in at last,
Unable to bear your weight,
Fear not, when the world darkens,
And fades away each sense,
Fear not, when you see,
That you're more alone than you've ever been,
Fear not, for this path you tread,
Has been walked upon by countless,
Fear not, for shall follow countless more,
And so shall I, my friend, my day's not far,
So let your head slide, as you lean back,
And smile, graceful, while you breathe your last.

A Mirror’s Reflections

Oh deem my name independent and complete,
Sans the need for a man's with it,
Care for the health of my supple critter,
For though fragile, she's borne more than you hear,

Spare a true word of praise, that drops from thy heart,
For not just the extras, but each day's effort,
For we take it all and fail to see,
All we've done and all we could be,

Oh share thy burdens, at work or at home,
And lay thy head on my arms, as I have, for years,
And hand me the pleasure of partaking your pain,
For in that, lies the highest honour I can gain,

You've come to see, how we were oppressed,
And you've laid a crown on our heads,
But pay no more for your fathers' sins,
For the torment they gave to our kin,

Pray, just see us, just us, for who we are,
More humans, just like you are,
Pray, place your hand along with mine,
And let's walk together, for all time

Living Life

I stand, lost, upon the brink,

Staring through holes on this critter's face,

Woken, decades ago from the slumber of naught,

Dressed in a body with a name and face,

And pushed, unwilling, into this strange existence,

And before I can discover what's what,

To learn the way to live and reflect,

I'm pushed again, now by the speed of the crowd,

Into the realm of the so-called real,

Forced to run by the fuel of fear,

A dread of starvation, of pain and death,

I run, unwilling, in the race of men,

A race not to win, but to avoid being trampled,

And while I run, I turn and stare,

At those around, who dash, oblivious,

And while we sprint thus, tired and breathless,

Time gallops ahead, forever in the lead,

To catch my breath I stop and bend,

And see a pattern, a distinct trend,

‘Tseems familiar until watched with care,

Like the strangeness of the letters that make our words,

Life’s a thing sans name or form,

A blank sheet with some dots, to draw upon,

To fill with shades of colours we choose,

And space to use the way we please,

It’s a simple design when you observe, aware,

A pattern that repeats, strangely symmetric,

A construct that defines beauty, irony and honour,

And shows what you’ll find and where,

It’s a case of a feature buried in its opposite,

Of honour hidden deep within shame,

Of greatness in the subdued,

And unseen beauty in the ordinary,

Of philosophy and logic on full stomachs,

And of irrationality when driven by hatred or desire,

Of surprise behind the curtain of seeming knowledge,

Of love behind utter hatred,

Of noblest intentions behind unfriendly face,

And of great ones’ fall from grace,

Of happy ones bestowed with short lives,

And of those in pain, cursed to live long,

And while death is certainly the inevitable end,

We’re also forced to live and fend,

Life’s blank and untouched, yes,

But it crumbles when unattached to purpose,

And so, to avoid the hell that kills will to live,

Our hands are forced to forge life into meaning,

We’re not rational beings as we claim to be,

And while reason’s a language society approves,

We function, truly, on emotion besides hormones’ rage,

And forge reasons for our simplest acts,

And so we must live our lives,

Terrible lies, though they may be,

Feigning understanding of all that’s around,

And feigning pleasure at acquired tastes,

Falling in love with a maiden pretty,

Deeming sacred, a feeling petty,

We add more to our assumed purpose,

And live, aligned to that of hers,

I learn, as my beards turned grey,

That the least I can lie is to myself,

Accepting all that cannot be,

And choosing to live, forced, ‘til I drop dead,

And as the hooves of truth pursue my tread,

Threatening to sever hope’s thread,

Clinging dearly onto the armour of hope,

Choosing to resist my fall to purposeless abyss,

For I see, now, that the inevitable shall come,

But to live these days I’m forced,

I learn to give in, to life, not death,

Not to fight, but to cease to resist life.

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.

Beauty

Fell my sight upon her form,
On her strange and graceful charm,
It bound me with its compelling claws,
As I watched, struck with awe,

'Twas a strange feel, new to my sight,
A mix of pain and delight,
For all I wanted was to watch her smile so,
But somehow I wanted more too,

Why did I so sorely to want her,
Perhaps the thought that someone could own her?
Or was it the push of an urge so great,
A compelling urge to procreate?

Unaware and desperate, I dashed for her,
Fighting men and hurdles sans fear,
Setting an eye upon the wars I won,
And another upon her form,

At long last she beckoned my soul,
Standing at her threshold,
Letting me into that heart of hers,
That heart that men all desire,

I lay there, tired and worn,
But beaming in all glee that I'd won,
For nothing more could a man want now,
Than the love of a woman he loves,

She'd fling herself onto my arms so light,
And turn heavy for me to lift,
And I'd hold her tight, yet so soft,
Sunk in the pleasure of the burden,

As I held her thus, I stopped to know,
If I truly owned it now,
The beauty I'd seen so long ago,
That charm I'd wanted to own,

I saw her now as a person I knew,
Like a friend I knew some more now,
But where in her lay that pulchritude,
That beauty that we'd all sought?

I drew her closer within our sheets,
And searched her naked depths,
I searcher her body and her mind,
And yet I could not find,
That I held that beauty, that beauty I'd sought,
For what all those wars were fought,

Not the most intimate touch,
Could reach out thus,  as I'd hoped to reach,
I dived and pounced and sought some more,
And even surrendered to what was true,

I didn't see it when I held her tight,
Nor when she gave in to my might,
I still couldn't, when she lay by my side,
And, smiling wide, lay open her naked breast,

And then I saw for then and ever,
That I could have it never,
For the beauty that'd flashed when I'd seen from afar,
Wasn't any brighter when she was near,

It lay a slave, faithful and true,
To her nimble skin and brow,

It lay, seen from beneath her skin and hair,
Across her every stroke of her,
Painted so like with a brush,
Shining with her every blush,

I saw then, beauty lay to be marvelled at,
To be enjoyed and written, and sung about,
A blessing to be joyously felt,
But never to be owned,

Beauty lies not in the eyes of the beholder,
Nor in that thing that's a joy forever,
It lies, hazy on a plane in between,
Both without me and within

Such is Life

Hiding within sheaths invisible,
They live a mystic life,
Crying out when needing help,
And fending for themselves when alone,

Knowing not, their name and form,
They seek to know what's around,

They smile and cry,
They fight and try,
Dancing with the waves of life,

They need another, they help others,
And claim to know and be known,
And yet they hide, from their own eyes,
In a darkness still unexplored,

Oh such is life, that fills their critters,
Spilling out as the truth,
From screams of pain,
And eyes when wet with love,

Such pain they bear, and yet they live,
Dragging their bodies along,
Fools at times, wise at times,
They wear their greying hairs,

So large and wise, yet small and meek,
They live to their own surprise,
Giving sermons of thought, of science and what not,
They bloom 'til they wither,

Ask them how and they know not how,
They say that such is life,

Oh what could it be, this wonderful gloom,
I know not what to say,
I sit, surprised, and don't utter a word,
I try but can't walk away,

'Prisoned in me, I struggle to breathe,
'Til I catch the shore of the sane,
I see in vain, I can't escape pain,
Nor the hungry jaws of death,

I see my doom, clear and bright,
But can't sleep 'til night,
For there's hunger and friends to feed,
And a conscience's strong drive,

So I gulp the fear and the need to know,
The need to sit and reflect,
Pushed, I move my exhausted feet,
And start another day's struggle,

Sit by me, and you'll hear my breath,
And me uttering these words,
These words I've heard them say,
For I know not, how they came,
Nor my eyes that see,

And yet I know, for I must go,
Else hell shall break loose now,
Ask me now, and you'll hear me say,
I don't know, such is life.