Poetry
The walk
The Sun descended upon his throne,
Shadows grew long.
The tides retreated from the shores.
The vast landscape,
Empty.
A pair of feet shuffled along,
Troubles piling like the coastal shelves.
I trudge on in solitude.
I am beat.
Umbrellas
Of coloured hues and painted petals,
Of flawless faces and perfect shapes.
You give shelter and shade.
A symbol of hope and security,
A tool, an ingenious invention:-
The Umbrella.
Le penseur
A man's thoughts, hopes and dreams
catapulted into this stale, stifling, safe capsule.
There is no diagnosis nor medication
for the tortured, tired mind.
The sparkled fragments of thoughts
Crashed to the ground
To be crushed and swept
Under the carpet.
A man weeps into his pillow
Hoping to reach his destination,
Where there are no law, no rules.
Just, where his alter ego resides.
Living
Changing seasons, different faces.
Chanced meetings.
The futility to struggle against
cycles:- A wheel of order.
Yet, we get thrown into the
battlefields of indecision
and confusion.
Tormented with fickledness
as we lose touch with ourselves.
Armed with intuition and a personal voice,
this scrapes us through the tumultous journey.
The seasons have changed,
Plants withered and blossomed.
Faces wrinkled. Hearts grown cold.
I am, Old.
Insomnia
Save me from this wretched world
of troubles so deep.
As I close my eyes in a futile attempt to sanction sleep.
Digging
The winds tousled her hair,
numbness overtook her as
her shame sunk in.
Shelved morals, forsaken pride.
Of sordid acts committed.
Whatever happened to self-respect?
Guilty, beaten and numbed with shame.
She is,
But Human.
Too close for comfort
The shadows drew too close,
I could barely breathe.
Endless thoughts , worldly desires.
No room for restful sleep.
Let me alone,
For I have been shaken
Through flesh and bone,
Tainted, battered, beaten, broken.
Considerations
My dreams receeded beyond my reach,
Broken fragments of polished thoughts
lay at his feet.
He was ambivalent.
So close, yet distant.
All I see are inverted hooks
tainted with paranoia.
the resonating silent screams
of confusion which hide
within the stillness of the night.
What is truth?
It leaves no value, no answers.
Empty husks of thoughts.
Denial.
Die Vergangenheit
Rob me of my youth,
Stab me with infinite lies.
Dress me in imaaculately woven answers.
I am
a puppet.
Actions filled with langour,
Sewing and mending seams.
Naked and cold as before.
I can barely feel my heart-beat.
