Candle-Life

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Eager to erase
the gloom, I share
my wick with
a flaming match-stick,
and a fire engulfs
my very being.

The ordeal eats
me bit by bit as
I shed silent tears,
yet I’ve no fears
of the devilish dark,
for I can last till
the onset of dawn.

People will bask in
the light, come morn,
oblivious to my
ashen self.
A martyr who fought
obscurity will remain
obscure, unmourned.

Photo Courtesy http://www.flickr.com

A War Within

Like the war-ravaged
world I reside in,
a battle-zone
lies in the cells of
my brain stretching to
the areas inside my chest,

where my role constantly
changes from a peace-maker
to an active soldier
to a mere spectator.

As if fueled by
an external beneficiary,
the trouble never settles.

Torn, whenever I try
to seek refuge
in a peaceful heart
I’m readily refused,
for strangers are
feared as trouble-makers.

Amid the failure
of all the counselling
options, I hope for a
divine intervention
to unite the warring
factions of body and soul
into a contented whole.

Nursery rhymes? Aren’t they fun!

Its been ages since I last tried something to rhyme. As most the people I came across in a few writing forums loath rhyming and rightly so for rhyming could so conveniently affect the thought behind an idea; the thought being the soul in a write up or poem for that matter. Yet, there are some schools of thought who love to keep the tradition of rhyming alive. I heard from someone an interesting analogy of exemplifying the context to that of tea and a cup; the tea being the thought or idea of a write up and the cup being the structure or form. Now some prefer the chai to be strong enough to sooth their senses while their certainly are others attracted by the colors and structure of the mug containing it.

Below here is my effort to rhyme a few lines for fun. The critics surely will call them forced rhymes which in fact they are but what I wanted was to play with those words the way I haven’t played for quite some time.

Your whispers like a flowing rhyme

sound as if the bells chime

in the crypt of a slumbering time

with an an effect, purely sublime

_________________________________________

Your eyes, like goblets of wine

are made to quench a thirst only mine.

In the dark of life, like a guide divine,

keeping me on track, do they shine.

___________________________________________

Growing doubts in your brain

will only help our love to wane,

and I can’t bear such a pain,

for I’ll hardly remain sane.

______________________________________________

Placing on this heart, the sill

of your separation is a pill

bitter than hemlock; better

you asked me, myself to kill

My desired change in life ..

Its a responsive post for Asma’s tagging blog.

My life’s always pendulumed between contentment and cravings, a case with most the humans I guess. What I’ve felt of late is a constant pull from the side where dreams reside and contentment’s sort of lost its charisma to charm me further. Now this inclination to a particular side is worrysome not only for me but for my near and dear ones.

As I love my dreams, the situation’s become very tricky when I think of curtailing them to accommodate a few realities; the pre-requisite of surviving in this real world. If given a choice to change an aspect of my life, I will like to balance my dreamy nature with that of embracing the realities of life with a smiling face. I won’t like any one of them encroaching upon the other. I’ll like to be successful in the game of survival in a real life along with carrying fantasies that could easily be translated into tangible realities.

Writing Melancholy

When the ferocity of pain

pierces the bounds of reason,

gushing in to the realms

of my mind,

and floods the corridors

of my heart;

when it rises up the levels

of strangulating heights

and just when I’m about

to drown in its tides,

I hold on to my pen

which inks the excessive

water, shaping it

to words and phrases.

Thus I’m unburdened

but the brazen words

never cease to invoke

sympathy, as though

the pain was maltreated.

A Generous World!

When the copters were

swarming the Gazans

and stinging the infants

and childs and women

and all who were living,

with the poisonous

bullets and rockets,

a Shiekh in Qatar,

(not very far)

was standing on

a carpet, red

(like blood of the innocents)

handing a trophy of gold,

(sculptured as an Eagle

like an Israeli drone)

to the winner of the

Qatar Open Tennis.

I, the sports enthusiast

couldn’t decide

which game to watch,

which one to ignore

for both were spectacles

of the same generosity;

of the Arab Shiekh,

and that of the world

giving the Israel

so much of space

to kill those

of a certain faith.