The Midnight Werewoman

Once upon a nightmare,
Under the oak tree,
Gazing the October sky,
Painted darker than black,
I flumped onto the blood-red ground beneath me,
Oozing melancholy of my gifted wounds,
Asalia tears betraying my iris-coloured iris,
And falling down on my lonely scintilla.
The cold breeze ruffling through my grey furs,
The rust lining my spine,
The blackened sharp nails with bits of flesh,
My intangible ugly halo shining bright.
The darkness of this light hurts me,
What am I?
The screaming pain in my bones,
Every full moon,
Splitting my soul, one by two,
And every time,
The tinted truth in the glow of this darkness,
Petrifies me, haunts me,
The slices of life, smeared with death around me,
The instant burning rage,
When I switch into this animal,
Failing to realise,
The shrieking mistakes,
The apologies lodged in my throat,
The wailing human soul of mine,
Through crevices in my heart,
Can I still be forgiven?
This isn’t my choice,
It’s the nature’s imprisonment to me,
The waning hues each time.
The lone wolf in me is still breathing,
Weary and frazzled,
Curled up in her furs,
My human side struggling to take over now,
Waiting for the Night’s final veil,
Perhaps, it’s over for tonight,
As I see the sun rising,
I notice my white skin coming back,
I’m human now,
Till the next full moon,
Once upon another nightmare,
A werewolf and her hopeless despair.
            
-Manu

Few but all things will change

Few but all things will change,
after this night of nightmares ends,
the way we looked at the world and now we do,
the death that seems new normal will haunt;
the path we mustn’t have taken,
the dread of death must have been stopped.

The boundary-wall of blood weaving its height
and never looks down,
the sprawling hands of death catching the light:
an eagle who scavenge in town,
Nothing to spare but to kill and drink,
the blood of smiles, and flesh of hopes.

This darkness in lights and everything seems bright,
so bright to see them tomorrow and day after,
the passing days and unbearable tides.

The crushed tomorrow and cursed today,
the night of deaths and moaning days,
a death as dust and a thought embedded:
nothing ever last is and it shall go,
but imprinted on hearts will never fade away.

Confluence of love | REPOST

The love of yours, To the love of mine,
The affinity of heart-beats, To remain alive.
The eyes of yours, And the eyes of mine,
Enough to see, The world of ourselves.
The arm of yours, To the arms of mine,
Enough to reside, For the whole of our lives.
The lip of yours, To the lips of mine,
A completeness, And cheers to the life.
Your trembling soul, To my closeness,
Your bowed eyes, And my yearning life,
Makes it adorn, The coveting soul of mine.

THE FABRICATED LURE

The divine ride of my bicycle through hazy humanity,
innocent replica of tomorrow how dim witted!!
slow-thicken and twisted, lullaby of lies we heard,
melody of myths, each passing day subsides.
the goodness, the beauty and the morale of life.
ashes, ashes, all fell down.

Then ticked on the Life’s clock, adult reality,
Full moon brings the darkest night agitated,
for people are bats who sleeps upside down,
they chant of modesty and truth fabricated,
Deadly roses, delicate and sublime,
The moment you see it, the moment you die.
Ashes, Ashes, all fell down.

Truth is the rotten dung in the dumpster,
Honesty is cowardice, love is miserable-lore,
For I know the truth of the selfish bones, I lie.
Assumptions, Beliefs and a relentless dream,
of an ethical, modest and fascinating us,
for you and I, we’re not the priest,
Ashes, Ashes, all fell down.


SOLD DOWN PEARL

Before the early birds could sing a love song,
Collecting the monumental lure of her love,
He left her marooned in demise for long.

She, who weighs priceless in heavens,
Awaits in demise, disbelief, and fear.
Pierced into her heart, the brand of love,
Makes the night sob in delusional despair.

Babbling in the air, sorrow and tear.
The herd of bleeding memories,
raising above the clouds,
Wailing, in grief of the dear.

The bruised heart foresees a day,
a day of love which won’t tease,
and the heart will live,
not today but tomorrow
or maybe some other day.


PERHAPS | POEM

Premise
The possibilities of the livings drives them forward. With all the heart wrenching predicaments of life, they still breath, they still live it to the fullest…

Only in the glimmer of hopes…..the sparkles of probabilities….the happy ones, the fulfilling ones…All the hardships seems dwarf when the canvas of life projects beautiful prospects of future…

Especially to the ones which struggle to get mouthful of food….the shattered huts and the smelling arenas tell their stories of wrenched life….Still the poor lives…the eyes search for just one flicker of hope….flames of possibilities..

Here’s a piece to magnify this feeling….

“PERHAPS

Perhaps the armour of the poor
is just a myth…
Endless sufferings
And
Deep scratches on the soul,
Yes indeed, it’s a rippling lie…
The flashy cards flared up
and the hollow promises,
The deprived eyes
and the questioning faces,
The sunken cheeks
which not blushes pink,
The chapped lips,
Far from being scarlet.
The lost smiles
and the tarnished thoughts,
No cloudy dreams,
In vicious cycle, they’re caught..
Necessities turned into needs
Chirpings into wails,
Knowledge means nothing
And Oh! The ship that never sails..
Perhaps…
Or indeed, if I say,
The dreams of newborn,
In these shattered walls,
would end up in dismay…
Perhaps..


New Arrivals


                                              

Burnt Arms of Roses hurt

Stuck within the walls of nonsense,
Stung by the venomous society,
Hiding scars of her heart, hopeless,
Gazes, the chopped wings of her.

The alluring blush has long gone,
Left is the flesh forlorn.
Deserted in the dust of humanity,
Burnt arms of Roses hurt.


The Dirty flowers in the garden of God

Flowers in the garden of god,
the aesthetic, elegant mankind,
flourished from one to the other,
an infinity of beauteous nature.

Somewhere, bestrewed with heavy
Leaves of cruelty, sits some flowers,
Covered in Bosky roots of hunger
and poverty.

In the brume of misery,
they ask for nothing,
but a mere question
of blooming,
at odd time,
at odd place,
in odd conditions,
is this life is given or forgotten ?

This injustice of god still prevails,
they need much but never given,
How cruel of creation?


New Arrivals

The brave ashes

On the sore of a river,
beside the ponderous forest,
from the burning dry woods,
they were born.

They smell poignant,
a grief that expanded,
from the dead wood,
till they’re burned to charcoal.

The whirling of them,
with the smoke feels like,
milk centrifuged in churning,

The black smoke with white ashes.
they travelled with the air,
from plants to plants,
from trees to trees,
from land to waters,
from everywhere to nowhere.

Some of ‘em just stayed there,
with the burning wood,
they found peace with themselves,
others keep roving.


From green flesh,
to the brown wood,
and to the burning,
then to the ashes,
is a journey,
which the brave ashes
keeps living after dying,
so many lives,
so many times.

“The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!” | John Keats

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –
Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday – or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

source: Poetry Foundation


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