Offline

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Float, Frenzy and Ferry are the words this time around. Thank you STJ  :)

 

Remember the days
our computer screens
were two banks
of the same river.

remember the days
we’d cover
several nautical miles
of our eyes’ moisture,
ferrying across IPs
in the blink of a cursor;

the days our hearts
would float
unperturbed
on the fiery waves,
thumping in frenzy,
against the shoreline.

Now when the waters
are almost dried
and cursors are abound,
I still venture across
only to be told
‘the person does not exist’

Mornings

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Every morning
is a sadistic thing;

the sacred mystique
of a dream
is stripped naked
by the sharp claws
of the sunbeams.

Every morning
is an incarnation
of a human being
into a primitive beast
as the stories bark out
of our tv screens.

Mornings don’t keep
the night’s promise;
they are the worst shoulders
to cry on.

Mornings exploit the dark
knowing not
the tables
are soon going to turn,

come dusk.

Nights

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Nights are eerily strange these days, the dark just doesn’t sit in. It hovers above like a vulture looking for prey. But I cannot feed it. Dreams do not die anymore; they do not exist. I can’t figure out the strangeness of it all; the dark, my erstwhile refuge refuses to sit by me, to wrap me in its fold. It rather lurches to peck me for something I do not have. 

Frost. Quiver. Echo. Long. Forsake

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This post is again courtesy the prompt words given by the very kind S.T.J on Twitter. I owe whatever I write these days to the kindness of her being. In an ideal world I should have written a book having all this encouragement but the blocks in my mind always get the better of me.

 

The frost-bitten birds

flock eastwards,

flapping their feeble wings

holding maps in their eyes

of the warmth of loving waters.

They dip and dance,

nest and mate,

before seeing their love life curtailed.

Their tiny hearts quiver and quail

with every echo of a gunshot.

They cannot do life nor love

and are left longing for a place

they will never forsake.