It’s quicker than you think. Faster than a click, How the now becomes, Part of the then.
With every step you take, The present vanish, Into the realm of the gone. With every breath you sip, You burn today down To the ashes of the faded, Only to ignite the birth Of a new dawn.
It happens in a blink, When here regress, The bygone thrives. And just like that, Comes another chapter, Another hereafter.
We don’t live for the thrill, We barely live at all. But we don’t live for the rush, Nor for how the ashes stash. We happened to be there, When the present disappear, And become another. And then another.
This is the beyond. Beyond doubt. All the pieces falling apart. Nothing standing straight. Nor falling right.
Beyond death. Beyond the instant kills Or the daily annihilation. And this is the beyond remains.
But also. This is beyond life. The usual strive. To be or not to be. To live or to survive. Or to rot in the lively strife.
Perhaps, all is beyond repair. Beyond the great powers Of death or life. Or doubt. Even denial Can no longer conquer Whatever is out there. For this is the real beyond.
There it is. All the angst and the urge, Floating, fiercely. Boiling, intensely. Only to burst unto The extends of the heavens. For I’m in the mood, To dissolve in the sky.
If, as they say, art is madness, Rather than sapience, Whether it’s nothing, Or everything, None matters without it. For the eARTh itself Is entangled And brewed entirely in it.
If, as they say, art is madness, I’m, then, wallowing in neurosis. Or maybe in the groans Of the entire universe.
If the whelms can disperse In the mighty presence of art, The undeniable force, yet, lives And they called it madness.
Under the burden of yesteryears, Beneath the shadow of the past, We embark on to re-write, The tales of the gone, The chronicles of our fate.
Yet! And yet, all for a failed attempt!
What has happened, Cannot be changed. Nor can be erased. For the ink has dried, The brushstrokes have halted, The story has sequeled. Not a breath to be redrawn, Not an inch to be slighted.
Life, nonetheless, went on. Burying the past, In the awe of the present, Life moves on, While we hang on To the nostalgic beyond.
I don’t pray anymore. For my body is unburdened, From my spirits; For my heart is locked, In the sheath of flesh; And my soul has been devoured, In the realm of my mind.
I don’t pray anymore. For I wait no longer, In fret and despair. For I unhinged the bar, To set loose from my fear And sheer terror. For, now, I am bound, To utter intrepid. A boldness, un-succumbed. Built on whatnot. Yet, a great freed.
I prayed. Once, or twice. For the safety of my soul, The relieve of my spirits, And the lift off my agonies. Only to rot in hurt, Of the uncanny wait, In unyielding anticipation.
I no longer pray, yes. Not in so many words, anyway. Or one. Do not haste to judge, yet. Or go right ahead And speculate.
For it is not the frustration, Or a tantrum in agitation, Caused by a mere delay, [Why I no longer pray]. One does not pray, For a form of repay. Yet, it is a transaction Awaited in reckon – Proof of being heard. And that is the real bound, The confinement of the heart, The bars on the rim of my soul, And the shackles of my being.
Are you insensed, For only I told The truth at the heart With no limit to my thought? Or have I tapped A sore spot, A sacred truth to remain untold? Or have I awakened the inner brute? The one lying beyond, Now, here unraveled.
I don’t pray anymore. Yet, I wonder. If I could entreat once more, To alleviate the burden, And the guilt Of not praying heretofore.
I do not live, Or believe, In intense life. I wish not to pound, The days harder than oughted. I love and live, In passive acquiescence. And, that – That helps to ease, Into the days I dread.
Yet, I overthink And contemplate everything. Wondering if it was intended Or coincided. Was it unconnected, Or all unified?
Yes, I’m conflicted. For the wars in my head, Are unyielding. Only thriving, To invade my soul, And devour me whole.
If I say one thing But do the other, If I taint myself For the mere strife, If I reshape and remodel All my life’s prospects For a thing of no importance, Do know, then, I’m conflicted. Deeply misapprehended, Intensely convoluted, And greatly confused.
Meanwhile,
Life trails off, Quicker than a puff, Faster than a fluff, Leaving no lapse Or time For me to dismantle The confusion, entangled. To fret the baffled Contortion, unwind.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m imprisoned. Shackled and tied, To the habits I once pursued, The days I once conquered. My freedom, yet, confined, Spreads through my words. Thrives in my utterance. For the days are too long, To be held in bounds, But, life is too short, To forfeit the limit.
If we were to deny denial, In the distractions we impose; If we were to abandon, All attempts of living While avoiding faltering, What would be left of us?
If we were to opress, The sophisticated being we caress, If we sprue the naivete We, once, shunned, Would we be more alive? Or less of ourselves?
In reversed reverse, In becoming the obverse, We might, for once Retaliate to rise.
Where do you bury your artistic voice? Is it beneath the laden of existence? Or the strifes of the days? Perhaps, in ties of being liked? Standing ovations of the crowd? Where, then? O, do tell, where? Your true colour, The soul of your art, The writhe of your words, Where shall one find, Your true artistic sound?
I read the words. Mere words. Too many words. Collocations and phrases. All laid and versed, On the splotch of the canvas. I read. Andreread The abysmal void, The taste of being a fraud. An imposter, no less. In too many words. Yet, soulless.
When uninspired to bleed Unto the paper, What, o how do you ever live? What do you do when the words Starts to taste like nothing? Inspiration, dried. Creativity, ambushed. And reality ventures real, What on earth do you do? O pray tell, what on universe would you do? Other than ramble! Ramble and ramble All your thoughts- Untidy and dishevelled As they come, You blab and rattle Till the mere Reorder reigns Again, for once!
Because the calm resides In the chaos, I keep running into the havoc, For an utter disaster and wreck, Solely seeking the solace, The tranquil after the mess.
For the breeze is imbibed In the whole gale, I retreat to the floods and hails Only to fold under The solemnity of the petrichor.
Not the love of the hectic Indebted my revisits To the rim of disarray, But the minute gentleness I indulge upon Amidst the great chaos.
Unabridged Manuscripts 