There lives a line,
ever turning,
chasing its tail.
Overlapping its figure,
with mouth open,
still chasing the tail.
There lives a man,
ever turning,
chasing his tail.
The days one n’ same,
with mouth wide open,
still chasing the tail.
Category: Poetry
To call a King a ‘King’
Who’s a King?
Will a broad-shouldered,
heavy-hearted, rugged chested,
body be called a King.
Or a kind, merciful
and just heart be called a King.
Does the wisdom of the World
make a King?
Or does a scar on the face and
bruises on the body make a King?
Am I a King?
with the wisdom, I’ve conquered and
the scars I’ve earned.
The heaviness in the heart and
the majesty in my look.
Would golden plates and
diamond crowns with a
gleaming sword packed upon
shinning sheath make me a King?
Does a book in hand
with a pen full of words
and the will to write
with a mind to think
make me a King?
Either would not,
until the winds around my frail skin
and the sky above my wounded head
Call me King.
The Great Race
And there it began,
The fall, the rise,
The mad, the fun,
From right and left,
Whence the King had died.
Rules of Jungle
There came the three,
The silent, short and troubled,
Settled down a tree,
Asking one and other
The first talked first,
About the rules and laws of jungle,
The second felt last,
While the third raised the fist.
There came the fourth,
Who cannot stand the noise,
Settling in middle,
The fourth spoke in murmers,
The third one lost the calm,
The Fist rose again.
The second found the sound,
Yet jammed it down the throat.
Day was neat and pure,
The tree was green and dry,
The rules and laws of jungle,
Stayed the same as then.
But the three of them and fourth,
Lost a teeth or two.
Empty Poet
The page broken,
Crimson ink flows,
Word by word to the floor,
Shattered at the glassy tile,
The silence broken sullen,
Air of blissful taste,
a painting of bloody dreams
An art of wishful times.
It stays.
And the storm passed, leaving the boy in the desert of bones. His sweat kissing his lips on the way to its grave. Two times, he failed, thrice, he tried. And now he stood with the fruit he desired, of a stubborn tree.
He gaveup his hope. But hope never left. It stays.
Stop Faking.
Be the silence others can’t be,
Be the voice where all else find mist.
To be right is the goal,
Not to be the first.
Got inspired from a fellow bloggers’ post. A quick write on a favourite subject.
Do check out the inspirational post I Already Know What’s In Your Tea by The Lightening Bug.
Where time goes
Are there any sorrow greater
Than losing the moments gone by,
Never to return in time.
Will there be more worries,
Than knowing this moment,
Will fade into the black.
Is there a joy greater,
Than not knowing what happens next.
Yearning for the inescapable.
Icy mountain.
An icy mountain once stood,
Blocking the raging sea from finding me.
The wind that came gushing,
Hindered by the gigantic rocks.
The clouds came raining,
The peaks pulled them out.
At last when the sun came up,
The icy mountain melted.
Flooding mine, in its own tears.
Away from the sea and storm,
To the valley of flowers.
Unbound blessings
Can I hold two hearts,
One for the wretched
And one for the blessed.
Yes, he said, the true one.
When the blessed care for the wretched,
A heart is whole,
For the World to fit
Finding the Alchemist 