a silent vigil

the ice has taken hold between the two passages,
carrying the crystal white burden of dreams
and the languages of intrinsic qualifications –

to choose the fog over mist, slush over dirt,
and to keep frozen into stone all deals upturned,
all wishes parted by a moment’s touch –

lost is the sudden acquaintance with sensation,
I am near the end, I am at the edge, always dazed,
glorified by the fear of tumbling down – just the bliss
of never seeing the light

for it’s hard to dream with open eyes, for it’s hard
to see through your lips where you reside –

who ever said that this mosaic of understanding is fulfilling?

that blithe sun has devoured all else.

you are the halo, the shadow, the skin to my desire, the symbol
to this paradigm of pain,
and I keep up my silent vigil,
I wait.

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Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

untitled (verity)

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where do truths come from and where do they go to die?

in this dreary consolation of time, I can see the whirl
of their wheels, and banished desires living on scraps.

if you’d told me of this night two nights back, I’d have believed
but never more.
who’s to say when the flowers droop and colors fall off of the sky?

it’s an inlaid embroidery; intricacy paves the way for simplicity –
I see babies cooing to each other, and people fucking their lives up
in search of one consoling hand. I see men showing junk, and women
trying to hide their breasts, both from an obsolete sense of loss.

where do lives begin and where do they fall over?

in this nest of living and unliving, dying and undying,
I carve lines into the air, of desire, of an unintended mirth
and we laugh. We laugh, we weep, but we just can’t hold each other.

we just can’t hold each other up anymore.

things fall apart.
my lips bleed, my body’s sore and the sour taste lingers in my mouth.
things fall apart.

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For “A Skyflower Friday” writing prompt at With Real Toads.

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planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do

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an infidel runs out to the street
to gaze at the five planets which aren’t there,
the whore ties her hair in a bun
to sing to the moon draped behind the clouds,
and the starving mutt barks

creating a collapsing sense of reality,
where sound & vision are marred by
the man who sold the world,

the goblin king wreathing gold coins
enumerating the faces in pain, and
the pain in faces.

how odd is that space of un-belonging,
how dust from stars fall into my eyes
to let me see and let me think, and burn
from ashes to ashes, from skin to skin,

I did relinquish the desire of faith and fate,
I stole the diamonds from his eyes
but they were just buttons with no life,

so in the end, there are only dreams
and that tiny whimsy bit of hope
that has to be quashed, in order
to live.

the whore’s song has died.
the infidel castrated,
the starving has starved,
and I,
I, done with the world.

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Image source

A Farewell to David Bowie. Linking it up with With Real Toads.

the view at the end of the lines

a blessing that ricochets off my chest
to fall on my bare toes, scarred and
engraved with the lines of silent sky,
that blessing is what I hold, much like
a dead flower in my palms, watering
as a futile attempt for it to reawaken.

I shut the heart inside a jewel box,
to beat unheard by lines of leisure,
it is like the peeling paint that just
won’t fall, demanding attention of
its decay, hurting eyes, I don’t want
to see anymore, everything in shreds.

there is a view at the end of all lines
that beckons all those lost leaves
plucked away from the home tree,
I am in the midst finding my way
to the chasm where it stops being
of consequence, needed no more.

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For Sunday Mini-Challenge at With Real Toads. I am also going to link it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

Image source– It is an oil on canvas by Piet Mondrian.

Words laid down to downsize dear dreams

What would it entail to carve me into an immortal carcass of chivalry?

It is not thine what you possess in this mauve maze of modernity.

Why is it cumbersome for them all to lift me up from my hinges?

Expectation is a cruel epiphany, better soon be resolved and discarded.

Where do swirls of the fates reside, mastering specimen of species?

Things to be found, and those that must remain in mist of melancholy.

Who yearns for song of the moon doting on exuberant stars of plight?

Pragmatism be the answer, and the answer alone, that is, for now.

.

The words that were brimming up the vessel of mind and thus, I spill them down… not to mean a meaning, not to say a thing but to just let them see their sight that looks nowhere but at me.

Limited to 100 words of vagrant vices, that is all that is. Thank you for reading.

Image source

Ahoy!

A loud call out to the bloggers regarding the fact that I am looking for some guest authors to write on How Anxious. I have had three wonderful bloggers write a guest post in the past, which you can check out here. And now I need you. Come on, drop me an e-mail at hamusesanewtune@gmail.com or tweet me at @HowAnxious. We will set things up. I’ll soon be spamming all your blogs with my requests. So, hurry up… talk to me right now about it.

the indeterminate sky

he roared with laughter

and the thunder rumbled,

a shine glazed his eyes

and the lightening strikes again,

he wept in joy

and sweet droplets peter down,

he cried a lover’s melancholy

and the great tears descend,

he wailed a mother’s fear

and the drops solidified,

he hollered in pain of despondency

and the tempest turns up

begetting mayhem and annihilation,

he is powerful,

formidable he is,

the king of the heavens,

the seed of the mother earth,

the father of the titans,

the eldest of all,

the indeterminate sky.

*Written in response to Personification prompt