Friends

-





A mismatch of caste, colour or creed -
Never stops them;
Hunger, lust or greed -
Is not from where they stem.

Either revelry of a won bet,
Or celebrations of an enlightened state.
Their love and joy can't be regressed,
Against what is and what is not great!

They solder onto you when they are made -
A process over play, fights and dry bread.
Never to be detached over your life,
Never to be cursed, never afraid;

What is life without them?
Oh! What a relief, they do not come with an end!
A soft cushion of madness, laughter, vex and mess,
Oh! What a relief, to live with friends!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Afterlife

-
Image
                Do you think there is life after death?                 Do you think there is life before? Enough time has passed for me to be able to forget things. Yet I remember them, as clear as the first crystals of ice, sinking down a tireless landscape. In fact, not a day has passed when these thoughts haven’t crossed my mind. No matter the place, the time, the people, these memories always sit somewhere in the back of my head – crawling and scraping through all that is left to be called a human. In commotion the renegades sweep away places, but there are some hidden at the centre of the stage – looking over all; overlooked by all. And I wonder why they came to be what they came to be.                 Asha, a young girl, stands at the centre of the city bridge every midnight – ignored, attended by none. I first met her on the 21 st of December, when I sat on the same bridge with the whiskey beside. No security – all smeared by the holidays. One shot; Two shots;
Read more

Echoes

-
Image
From the lofty mountains that I stand against - At the edge of this cliff, Echoes a voice that no one can hear but me - It is alluring yet still stiff. What can the voice be but my thoughts? That resonate across these valleys; And have been doing so for many years now, So many that I have lost tally. I wonder if it is just me or all the likes of me - To whom the valley calls, Or who call the valley: Who have broken their bones on a padded fall - And have been living with patched skulls - Of a destituted, unprotected heart, Too innocent to know for the better, Is struck with the loss of its older part! For the new home seemed too good to leave, Alas! So lonely now is the valley of thoughts. Introspects are lost and tis caught, In an unknown - is it not? But the valley has a voice of its own, So it comes out seeking all those who groan - And reek in confusion and perplexity. Oh! This alone can never leave you alone! S
Read more

Castles

-
Image
It is subtle, It comes in many forms. The castle we wish to build, Lies on a cloud of storms! In hope yet we lay the bricks, In passion we stack them tall; The castle is close to complete, When the storm blows it all. It comes in all shapes, At times early, at times late- And takes away all the construct, That could've made a castle great! The blown bricks fall from the sky, Hurt heads and hearts all alike; And there remains no explanation, To counter the pain that strikes! But the castle wasn't meant for us - But for all that have been hurt; And it's not the bricks that matter, But the pain absurd. For Castles built in a day are weak, They crumble with the slightest crack; But only cracks accumulated overtime, Build something that new-fold castles lack! And when the castle has seen, All that is and could be; It is a sanctuary, a humble abode - For not us, but all that were hurt in its making!
Read more