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

DARKNESS | LORD BYRON

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.


Selected MUST READ BOOKS OF LORD BYRON

The Complete Works of Lord Byron: Including His Suppressed Poems, and Others Never Before Published; Volume 1

A MASTERPIECE| REPOST

Sitting besides the blue-ish river of Atlanta,
Staring, the filled sky with grains,
Glittering in the nights.
He beseeches for a masterpiece.

A thought, that can change,
his life, before, it ends.

Carving, through the muds of soil,
he began his journey of life.

Some emotions, like an ocean,
with devotion, and his imagination,
created some wonderful creations.

Dolls, to play with,
Sculptures, to decor with,
Utensils, to cook and eat with.
Love and emotions put into it,
to live with.

Paving ways to the thirst of his creativity,
to accomplish, its starvation,
to achieve its thoughts, of giving life,
life to the cluster of soil and water.

Now scattered, within itself,
asks for relief, in search of something,
a masterpiece,
to mark his name,
in the history of this world.

Never found, was a masterpiece.
Found, was never a masterpiece.
Life squanders, to a limitless,
infinite, search for the pearls.

Never seen but catching,
Attentions of all, calling,
hidden inside,
deep and within,
the structured, boundaries of flesh,
Craving, is a masterpiece.

Poem Excerpts: 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.

Read the complete poem

THE FORGIVEN BETRAYAL

Oh! When the heart flutters with the beats of love, it’s the most serene feeling in this universe. But what anyone can do when the love of your life is the reason for your existence, and is taken from you or betrays you. you couldn’t just put that love behind and move on,can you?

The love never dies and so does your feelings. If by any chance you’ve got to know that your love was not the one who betrayed you, but the destiny did, you want your lifeline to hold you when you count your last breaths.

Oh! This feeling!!!!! It takes my senses to another level….

Presenting you this piece of mine….to say the above in some woven words…

THE FORGIVEN BETRAYAL

Oh! The light of faith has gone
And the serene blindness in it,
Warmth of the hearts dulled
Have icy questions in it…
The silken thread of trust
Is somehow, broken,
And the feathery feelings
Are now, just a token…
The pious love never gets faded
Though,
Wails with the tears of betrayal,
And stands still on that trail
where the hearts met…
Ablazes everytime,
when the lost time flashes in the mind.
But flies in heaven,
When relives the moments;
Yes! Those one of a kind….
On the deathbed,
The last wish is to hold hands,
The warmth would return,
The cracks of heart would heal…
Peaceful smile on the lips
with the touch of beloved,
And the eyes would close,then
Forever,
As everything’s now,forgiven….
                                                    -MANU


THE PEN OF CREATIONS

It’s enfolding, the forgotten me,
the dead me and the rising me,
a prose of love,
and some poetries of life.

It stretches me out,
from the life of hazards,
to the life of wonders.
Like a lyrics,
Written on breaths,
It sings inside,
to make a charm,
Blowing up the faces.

It feels the joy,
Of creating thoughts,
the ink of zeast,
Filled to the life,
Writing on the lives,
Of an small ant,
to huge vampires.

It surrenders to me,
the weapons of creativity,
To pave a way,
for a blind kid, like me
Who can’t see the life,
the life of wonders,
Filled with joy.

To the heaven, which is here,
And nothing is beyond,
it blow up the mind,
to fill the with lights,
The light of creativity,
for the lives with art.

Time escapes

Time escapes,
faster,
wildly,
unrealized,
unpresented,
but slow for the fastest.

In the arms of heaven,
it never sits,
but keeps running,
towards
a never-ending race.

We,
On the other side,
Keep waiting,
for the right time,
to strike,
for good,
or for fortune.

It never,
Strikes the clock,
the way we want,
the way we wish,
and, we keep waiting.

the better is,
not to sit,
but to run,
faster than time,
realizing,

but not looking at it.
For what we know,
we can’t stop,
never we can,
so, run faster,
and leave it to rest.


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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