The Pen

So this is where you belong

In these crimson coffee lights

Carrying a bag on your shoulders

Some untold and hidden delights

 

You take out a pen, deftly uncap it

And draw dreams on papers so blank

I hold my breath and feel the nib

As it carves heartbeats without a swank

 

Aroma of an amour blushes in the ink

Chasing floating beads, I seek my way

Unlocking the charms I yearn for to see

Inside this wish, my memories sway   

 

You make me a peace, every time

Even in my things of not so good

Inside your pen flows a life for me

Just be that pen…once…if I could

 

  

A Valentine’s Song

 

 

Can bet on my last heartbeat, blindly

That you would know this for sure

My sunshine comes from your eyes

Your soul is my heaven’s only door

 

How you bind me with your touch

How you hold me from falling apart

How you know me more than my Gods

Through you, I seek my every start

 

Enchanted words of a guided feel

Ominous clusters are painted serene

My love needs to be in your arms

To know its purest and only sheen 

 

 

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day” to my dearest wife.

This is where we belong….in this life…and forever.

 

…yours…mine…the same…the only one

If all of us truly knew where we are heading as a race…at least we would have realized it’s high time we ask for the correct directions

 

 

Omnipresent obscurity obliges only opportunists

Simple souls squalidly seek some surreal spectacle

 

Evil entourages ecstasy, entices errant eloquence

Fake faces form facets fostering faulty friendships

 

Castrated cowards cajole corrupted consciences

Delivering deadly doses, delivering dreary determinations

 

When whishes wear wobbly withered wrinkles

Lucid lanes laboring love lay lost – lonely – lifeless

 

 

…never again

 

When they made love for the first time, it felt magical to him.

It was pious.

It was beautiful.

It was everything love could feel of.

 

…and he knew that no matter how hard he tried – he may never be able to touch the quintessence of this moment…ever.

 

So he went back to his home.

 

Whole night, amidst the lingering fragrance of her that was left onto his every breath, he painted.

 

He painted her. He painted life on that canvas. 

 

…and in the morning, satiated with his labor of love and madness with all those colours….he drank his wine…….and shot himself.

 

…he knew – he could have never loved again like that.

…he knew – he could have never painted again like that.