untitled (verity)

Untitled (Public Opinion) by Felix Gonzalez-Torres

.

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.

.

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

Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: facebook.com/aaha12345
Snapchat: anmol901 

This Highway

mumbling words

as the bus bumps

along the distresses

of this highway of notions,

of emotions, I have kept

ingrained within the coal tar

over which I drive the roller

of my communication, of things,

I tell you from the blanket

of night, breathing stories

not of stars, but of their images

that glint in the mud pond of life.

A little too urgent now and then,

I may have you see

the ills of my voice, but

what can I do, when

my truths are hollowed out,

distresses formed along this road,

where you don’t know, but

I let you know everything

.

Image source

Illusion: A Haibun

Illusion or reality- that shrouds my vision obscuring from me the truth that lies before me. There is a grey cover hiding a round object on the table. That object is what I seek, that object is what will give me a much-needed direction in life. I move gradually towards that wooden structure on which rests my fate, my destiny. I thrust my hand forward and carefully pick up the grey curtain, which when hurled away would lead me to the view of what the future holds for me. I am numb but I made myself see the object. It is a glass orb. I pick it up and all I see is haze and nothing else. Illusion or reality- that plagues my vision obscuring from me the truth that lies nowhere before me.

a hazy future

illusion of the glass orb

directionless life

* For Ligo Haibun Challenge.

See/Look

source

see,

look

within

my brown eyes,

you will be dazzled

and I will bear your weight because

as dark as I am, that is something I always do,

.

as dark as I am, that is something I always do,

you can judge me if you desire,

spurt me with wise words,

but look, see

within

these

eyes,

.

you

will

find my

lost shadow

and you will see me

as I am without my white mask

and my scars will be on display just for you to view,

.

all my scars will be on display just for you to view,

the blotted marks of a known truth-

life is hard to live,

grasp this fact

once you

see

me.

.

* Mine are brown but rather hollow; they don’t say anything. They remain mum.

** Fibonacci poetry (which I liked a lot once) for dVerse Form For All.

Evolution

The evolution of a being

from the childhood’s reverie

to a grown up’s veracity

from the glimmer of the stars

to the blaze of the sun

from a small injury

to a large gaping wound

from an innocent vision

to a gruesome deed

from the world of truth

to the universe of tall tales

from a fresh water lake

to the ever salty ocean

from the protection of the nest

to the vast lonely sky

from a seed that is sown

to a pest infected plant

from the drop of nectar

to an urn of venom,

the evolution of an infant

to a grown up soul

tarnished by world

shaded by emotions

from the afternoon nap

to the insomniac nights

from the playful toys

to the killer weapons,

there is an evolution

a real evolution

of a spirit as he turns

from a joyful mirth

to an evil sneer in the end.

* Written in response of Theme Thursday Writing Prompt.