(de)compose(d)

decomposing-
I see her face through
a veil of clouds, I touch
her eyes, against
my heaving chest,

tear after another, lining
my heart with the grievous
tendency of the dying tree,
left battered, uninhibited,
surrendered, to be guillotined

by the vivacity of this shore
where dead footprints walk the night.

decomposed-
she is a chance encounter in my memories.

decomposed-
I walk along the shore
once again. I see her,
in the sand between
my toes.

decomposing,
my body is bare,
bathing in the rain of
subsistence, that wrinkles
my skin into a tangible
thought.

decomposed-
she never was. I was.

.

Image Credits: “Decompose” by Zaldy Icaonapo

Linking it up with Photo Challenge # 85 at MLM Menagerie and The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

This is Poem # 3 for my 30 Days, 30 Poems challenge.

Swallowed by Self

Pablo Picasso- Facing Death

a pseudo thought lulls the mind,
(a plausible artifact of decadent body)
release of reason, of ground reality,
I am the man of flair, a jackal
to create chaos out of this order.

I’m struck with a unison of doubts,
flogging the rope of struggle, I
am a hostage to light, to dark,
I have an erection of infirmities,
I lick gravel down my falling feet.

there is that verity shoveled down
my throat, bound by the cable of
dexterous dreams asphyxiating me,
hanging by the arch of a house of
callous cards, still swirling that
thought of misery, enclosing me
from my own voice, I thus grieve.

.

Linking it up with World # 42 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

a story circles seeking an end

the rise and fall of a dog’s paws as it leaps

through the night, beneath the chill settling

on the shoulders, the summer drawing to

a close, an ending of all that enraptured

my thought, the fire extinguishes again in

the pinch of my thumb and forefinger, time

seems to be turning on my path again, I

can smell its perfume, a plot of my dreams

a movie seen on the TV one lone morning

the past tingles my skin and I wink, repeat

the steps once traversed, crumbling beneath

soon the land will run out and a trench formed

and a true end that be, the black dog heaves,

my feet take me to places unknown (yet known)

ubiquitous eyes trace all that happens, that is,

the fates die by my touch, diffusing into the blurs,

I turn into an Effigy, the moon howls, dreams sleep

.

Image source

The writer has the right to tell his tale in symbols.The reader has the right to see through those symbols as a part of his own tale.

Night-Time Wonderings

There are those moments when you realize that you do not suit the standards set to be followed by you. You are yourself, but not someone who would take the step forth to conquer all the odds. Some people are just meant to be living in a world created within and not that which comes in contact with the many other worlds conjured by the lives of all.

I am an entity like any other. I am no more significant than an ant trampled beneath my feet. To realize the insignificance of things and of your life, you come to accept yourself, even if your understanding is embedded in darkness and isolation. Is it bad to let the days go by with limbs measuring the length and breadth of bed? Does inactivity exist when the mind continues to whirl images of memories, of desires unfulfilled, of unreachable dreams?

Every thought is contradictory, because there is not a basic idea or emotion or feeling to guide a life. We are humans and thus, we are entangled in the branches of the ideas and emotions and feelings. There is no right answer because there is no right question. Everything is the same, everything is different: Life just can’t be understood.

Who is to measure the worth of a life lived in play? Who is to measure the waste of a life lived in inactivity? What needs to be done? Which direction of the contradictions to cling to?

I am drifting to sleep, I am singing to myself, I am thinking. What needs to be done? What should I do? Where am I? Where am I to go from here?

.

Image source

that justice which engorges rationale/ a beast appears- I am a vampire (Part 2)

college

 Pale face with kohl in eyes, I am on the right…

a face with no color, pale that I become

in the evening when sun petals have scattered

amid the clouds, I walk through crowds showing

a glimpse of my crimson lips and dark eyes

.

people avert their gaze from me, I am peculiar

in the land of gentle folk, a bane, a truth

that no one stares at, no one has that restrain,

my palms are the sheets of days and nights

obscured in the mist of the now, I can’t escape,

my desires unfulfilled, words only creating a hum

.

as the night darkens and the owl hoot is heard

in the dazzling dance on the carpets, where we stand,

I wave my hands, take a leap like a doll extended

beyond the lines of rationale, lost in the moment

whence a shot captures me, I am a vampire,

“A picture please…”, “Oh! You look like a ghost”:

path traverses out, a new phase of life begins

.

is this that justice, showered by twinkling eyes

and nodes of narcissism jutting out of one and all

and same as me, deriving beauty in lonesome lies

.

This is the second in the series titled, I am a vampire. If it happens to be so and if the muse allows me to do so, I would like to continue further with it. You can also read the first poem in the series: justice wrought as words tumble out/ at least for now- I am a vampire (Part 1)

The above picture was clicked on our Freshers’ evening. The theme was: Halos and Horns. I had a hurried day and within a span of five minutes, I tried to mold my face into a caricature of the light and dark which resides in us. And “they” once again said that I look like a vampire. If my mouth was open, you would have got a better glimpse as to why that comment has been directed to me. 😉