When You Leave My Dreams

 

 

So many times

I’ve broken down

and did not let it show.

            You need to be there,

            holding me as one.

            You’re my only glow.

 

There is a heart inside

which stops to breathe

when you leave my dreams.

            Believe my wish

            and see in my eyes,

            lays a soul that gleams.

 

If I can’t live just once more,

would you be there when it all seizes.

Or I’ll just be here, waiting for you,

wishing this last breath of mine freezes.    

 

 

His Last Song

Mr. Dan was an old man.

He had just turned sixty four.

An old rusty hat on his head.

The same tweed jacket he always wore.

 

He had a violin not so new.

Never played it, his heart was forlorn.

Living unknown by the roadside.

Still, had an incomplete song.

 

They say she was in love with him.

She used to come see him play.

He wrote a song everyday for her.

He wished she could forever stay.

 

One day she didn’t come back.

And he bled his soul playing in pain.

His last song is still unsung.

As he waits for her, perhaps in vain.

 

His Wait For Forgiveness

 

 

She woke up out of the comma exactly after five silent years.

A lot had changed. Everything seemed so different. So many people that were in her life had moved on. Only her father stayed.

She and her mother were returning back from the airport after seeing off her father who had one last official visit to make before he hung up his Naval Uniform after 30 years of service.

She lost her mother in that car accident.

There was a knock at her door. Her father had gone to get her some medicines.

“Please come in,” she said.

A middle aged man with a grayish beard entered with an uneasy smile. He was wearing a stained coat and a well ironed trouser with a neat white shirt. He was carrying a bouquet of handpicked roses.

She tried to recognize him but was sure she had not met him earlier.

“Hello. How are you doing,” he said gently and she could feel the shivering in his voice.

“Well, thank you sir. I am doing fine I guess,” she replied still not sure who he was. “I am sorry, but I am finding it difficult to recollect if I know you.”

He placed the bouquet of roses on her bedside. He clasped his hands together.

“I am sorry for you. I am sorry for your mother. I am sorry for your family’s loss. If you could, please forgive me,” he said with teary eyes.

“I am the one who was driving the truck that hit your car.”

Suddenly, she woke up from her dream.

She finally woke up from her comma after five silent years. His father was still besides her.

There was a bouquet of handpicked roses on her bedside.

 

 

His soul had waited for five years to beg for her forgiveness.

 

 

The Past – Perhaps Yours – Certainly Mine

 

Everyone of us has a past…sometimes cherished and sometimes haunting.

So many of us would come into this graceful world of blogging because of something powerful that happened in our past which certainly shapes our present and future in some sense.

Whatever it may be – the perfection of past lies in the fact that we actually lived it to be the person we are.

…and proud bloggers we are !!

 

 

Ruffling recollections

Lying on parched sunsets.

Blissful blisters, simplified.

Dilemmas won in bets.

 

This part of me, half sustained,

half disfigured and half beaming.

Decorated with hidden imperfections.

Desires witnessing careless pruning.

 

Wanting to change the past, departed.

Floating inside the traditional chasm.

Show me the faith, still burning low,

before heartbeat hurts like a spasm.

 

What good is the calm that swathes the will,

after the battering inside a storm.

Make my world a place to live.

Take me home in this dismantled form.

 

Pick my past, endowed criticism.

Cite the minuscule peace within.

Bring back the time of creating a self.

Wrap my soul with a new skin.

 

 

Murky Personification Of The Enlightened

The legends of an era, the idols of millions and the dreams spoken with reality – these artists had life and name as good as it gets.

But behind the blazing flashes and buzzing pyrotechnics, high pitched speakers and shady goggles, lived a person who chose to speak and sing to face or avoid his shortcomings – they were just as human as us. 

Tribute to these great ones who still inspire and intrigue us.

Wished they had lived a bit longer to know the difference they could have made.

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Away from the anguish of an uncongenial demise.

My soul lies amongst the ones who knew just enough.

Bleeding fingers on the strings of my fastened starvation.

A truth waiting to be told, veiled in my rhythmic bluff.

Opaque souls being devoured with expectations.

You follow me with the desire to understand the pain.

And I – the murky personification of the enlightened.

Songs of confession nourishing my absurdness in vain.

I feel strongest when you touch me with your bare heart.

Amalgamated stories of you and me in consonance.

My meaning lies in my words, so different from my deeds.

Shamelessly baring my demons in a 30 minute performance.

This life was the beginning of me fighting the Gods.

Defined with madness and hate, my face would be drawn.

Infamous ends would be my treasured pronouncements.

You would know and want my love – when I would be gone.

The Man Who Sold His Soul

This is not a confused post.

This is an inspired post.

A post inspired by our tendency and weakness to follow people who are legends not because of the greatness they lived with but because of the way they chose to end their lives.

 

 

Watching from the other side of the window.

Severed ambitions gather into a haze.

A world so indulged in denying the legitimacy.

Nirvana – an excuse spreading like a craze.

Mind believing in a perfect life when lost.

Wandering in guidance of the umbrageous crest.

Patience evaporating with the alleged innocence.

Authenticity takes cover behind ridiculous jest.

In awe of people who could never hold on.

Exposed sentiments of gutless honesty.

Reciting their dilemmas as symphonies of truth.

Witnesses of hollow wisdom with audacity.

Once a domicile of wrecked will of merit.

I get dragged towards an ambiguous toll. 

Before they brand me with customary fatigues.

I decided to be the man who sold his soul.