sooner (than later)

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so it was in the cold that I held
those earnest embers of your words,

you were the marble idol
when black and white mingled
to cover the deep trenches of
my heart, your singular smile
was the only thing visible, only
sight on that evening of lights.

a caress on my neck had me
drugged, I was a shore for your
rising tide, I lost myself,

oh I lost myself that night, and
I am cold yet again, those embers
have a faint glow, and I am cold again

in the brilliance of my torn skin,
shivering in shadows of your smile.

I hold the new key, so new that it
is not yet familiar by the touch, of
my fingers, and I walk through
the door of this unknown circumstance,
I want to be home.

yes, I have fallen for you.
February comes soon.

.

Image source

Inspired from February by Dar Williams, written in consideration of writing prompt at With Real Toads.

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this is a communion of mockery

and it is bestiality that sucks
blood from my passion,

pin me down by your gaze, subdued,
I cry out, bite my spirit into chunks
of my broken armor, burn me alive

this instant, plunge my back with
the sword of impudence, against
my wish, but my wish is held true

in the recesses of this panorama
where nothing is seen, and everything
is naked.

punch my chest to make me numb,
your nails piercing me through
and through, till nothing is left
unterritorized. I’m no longer alive.

dead, I am, to the shadows that fall
on your naked back, I plunge my hatred
inside you with a power of resurgence,

of

this treachery of an evening, that lives
beyond the realm of an everlasting night.

let me be the trickster, let me
be the one to wrench open your arms
and embrace you with my lethal dance.

let me wrestle around the sky where
the sun has been plundered, disgraced.

let me eat the flavorless fruit
of this mockery of life, of passion.

let this night line my shores again.
let this night never touch me again.

.

The year before last, I took up a challenge to write and publish 30 poems in 30 days of November. And I finished it. This year, I am going to try and imitate it. This is Poem # 1.
Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Image source

Hotaru (Firefly) Haiku

shimmering fireflies

into the eyes of  beloved

a passionate love

~

old stream of water

soldier returns home from war

black tears, fireflies gone

~

midnight moon shines bright

hotaru glows at distance

illumination

~

a mid-summer day

young boys trot towards river

waiting for the fire

~

waters set on fire

man gazing into his soul

a soundless twilight

~

splendor of fireflies

fairy tale coming to life

spectators gather

* Written in response of Carpe Diem # 221

* Won’t be able to post for the next 8 days or so; going to miss the wonderful prompts.

her life

she was the woman with dark kohl shaded eyes

with the vocals so resplendent and unique,

in her presence, the morning sun seemed to rise,

she was at her career’s, passion’s highest peak

when got tarnished by some bitter addiction

and her life became a popular fiction,

she is now gone, lost her war with her devils

but her true to soul baritone voice revels…

P.s.-

Poetic form- Rispetto

Rules-

1. 8 eleven-syllable lines, usually one stanza only.

2. Rhyme scheme- ababccdd.

3. Not much of a rule, but traditionally dedicated to a woman.

What is writing to me?

Many people have asked me- What is writing to me?

Well, that’s a very simple question with a very complex answer which is dynamic in nature.

Writing- writing is writing to me. What else could have been the best answer to this particular question?”

“To write is writing”- would it be the better answer?”

Well, I haven’t put much thought to it but I think I should.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is passion, the passion to mark my words with something I feel deeply attached with. It is the passion that helps me in incorporating my thoughts in some identifiable shape which are otherwise always messed up. Writing is the passion which helps me deal with the situations in daily life. Writing- the passion to achieve the highest limit I can think of achieving to come out as a better person, a better interpreter. Writing is the passion for me to strive, struggle to reach that limit and then, set an even higher limit to achieve.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is knowing, knowing myself in a better way. I can never realize rather I will never realize who I am as an individual if there was an absence of writing in my life. Writing is the way of knowing the hidden thoughts deeply set up in the intricate structures of my mind which I can only know while writing by putting them in appropriate words. Writing is the way for me to know my ambitions, what I want to achieve in life. What I write is real- my writing denotes the real me. Writing, therefore, is a way of knowing everything I want to know. That is the easiest way I can formulate all this much into.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is expressing, expressing myself to me. Well, expressing myself in general is knowing myself. But sometimes it becomes so much difficult to know yourself even through writing, it is the time when you have to express yourself without giving a second-thought to what comes to your mind from within your heart, you just write and write- thereby expressing yourself. It is such a beautiful exercise but deeply addicting- it may be of great significance but may be it would show you the side of yourself that you couldn’t know- the side which had been hiding which all of a sudden sprints out, the resultant thoughts may not be so pleasant.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is reading, reading what I want to read. Now that is surely going to confuse you. But yes, its true. It isn’t complex. Writing to me is reading- when I want to read something, give a vent to my thoughts reading something peculiar to my interests, then there is nothing better to read but my own creations. So, writing is a way of reading and amusing myself by way of reading what I write. Easy?

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is compulsion, compulsion to write. It compels to write- writing compels me to write. As I have earlier written that writing has dynamic meanings for me- hence, particularly even though when I don’t want to write- the germ of writing that I am rearing in me compels me to write. Once you keep on writing, it doesn’t always come out to be a leisure activity- sometimes, it becomes compulsory for you to write for no reason in particular at all. I have to write, that means I have to write- that comes out to be a message from the inner-self with no explanation, no reasoning.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is passion, way of knowing and expressing myself, it is reading to me and henceforth, it is a compulsion to me.

Do tell:- What is writing to you? What does it mean to you?