THREADS

Threading the caustic realm of chaos,

Minds weave the tapestry of war.

This is

The leeching flag amidst society's blood misted landscape,

A bridal veil for optimism's virgin frame,

A scarecrow to the scavenging scouts of peace.

It proves handy while snuffing the breath out of order,

And the hunger out of starving elegies.

 Its unweaving is the real art,

That's when the true battle begins.

MELTING CITIES

Stick out your tongue, O time!

They are facing dissolution

Like candles with electronic wicks.

Let their fluid corpses armor your innards!

The next wave of self annihilating hordes will come.

Empowered in blinding luminescence,

Metallic roars, inflated populace and greed-greased ambitions,

They will march.

Upon your armored innards 

They will plant the drooping flag of Civilization.

ANAESTHETISE THE DIVINE

  A chaos-blooded orb that leeches on to divinity,

This world is a carnival of prayers and hopes,

A crowded graveyard for self desecrating memories.

The omnipotent glutton gorges on

every bloody bustle that stains this orb.

In eternal hunger he drools and floods

the airy caverns of emotions with the saliva.

The rusted bed of prospects endures

this glutton's unyielding frame.

It howls and creaks with his unfathomed weight.

The bow of fancy has been armed,

The skepticism tipped arrow aimed at the willful glutton.

The primordial yearning to see him anaesthetized

And dissected shall come to fruition.

O how the marksman PEACE beams with surgical precision!

May this surgeon purge the glutton's innards;

Purge them of their tumorous plague of

political sorcery and superstitious hauntings.

EGG

I crack upon the horizon and

let leak the golden fiery yolk.

It splashes upon the verdant canopy and

sizzles in pensive fumes.

Spiced in the dust kicked up by cattle

And

Seasoned with the feathered flock

that ornaments the horizon,

The egg regains its aromatic avatar,

Much to the delight of nostalgia's nostrils.

Once I flip this egg over with the lunar spatula,

the night shall have its dinner.

A delectable drizzle of morning mist

shall be the beverage.

As for the eggshells,

I shall forge a taxidermied sun with them.

It will shine upon my mind’s dejected horizon.

A LUNAR THOUGHT

I see a haze tainting the lunar face

That over its silver gleam aligns,

 Its presence only the inner eyes could trace,

soon the truth of its cosmic plight unwinds

It’s the haze of stagnation that stern time

As the moon’s solitary routine weaves,

  Crawling through the night sky’s ebony grime,

The scarred yet bright trail of diligence it leaves.

A DECEMBER MORNING SCENE

On the hay-clad field, graceful cows at morn

Calmly embrace its aureate offering,

Sylvan views turn into tunes that adorn

My musing heart like ornaments to bring

Upon my solitary self a shine,

That soon over my earthly fears aligns

O treasured field, wonder your harvest is!

Tending to humans and cattle’s sublime

Mutuality that like waves upon seas

Grace emerald shores of seasons and time.

Alluring stature of the fertile field,

The fragrance of humble rural hope yields

The field’s mist-bathed attire basks in sunlight,

White storks on this fabric like dazzling gems

Paint rural glory, thus portraying a sight

That has timelessly walked on poesy’s realm

Through a palette that yearns for beauty’s stars

To outshine the mind and its dusky scars.

BLOOD OF THE MOON

The moon’s blood through veins of solitude flows,

Nocturnal prowlers suckle on its scent,

At solitary voices’ poignant advent,

Motherly wind of the night proudly blows

embowered in whose womb haunting lights glow.

The day is reborn as darkened remnants

of shadows’ cold pillage, silent descent

of which on isolated souls bestows

hope’s wistful visions or horrid nightmares.

Lunar blood clots thus healing daylight’s scars

Yet embraces the frigid hue of fear,

Cold, ebony loneliness from afar

Forges freezing hearts that melt into tears

to wash away the rot of emotional wars.

TO THE MOON

(Words from a Selenophile)

Paint me some thoughts, O silver castaway!

 As I trace your sordid cosmic journey,

An eternal crawl across the ebony

sea that kisses the golden shore of day.

Upon the blackened canvas of my gloom

That stands upon sturdy thoughts of despair,

In stellar streams route and shed your cold tears,

Their murmur - the siren call of my doom!

A doom whose cold source I fail to discern

eclipsed by my blissful memories of yore

where ubiquitous your cold presence burns

an elusive warmth is its quaint downpour

Like your cosmic plight salvaged by daylight.

My scarred hope yearns for the shore’s faintest sight

WAX BULLETS

What is madness?

O daydreams, tweak your utopian strain for once and

suffice me with a satisfying glimpse.

Is it that feral, malnourished visage of the neuronic landscape,

amidst whose undergrowth roils the hiss of serpentine thoughts

Who injects their venom into their own coiling selves?

All I know is,

they do not die!

They mutate

Into delusion-mothered, hope-starved yet

overweight abominations .

But the forest fire is diligent.

While they are absolved in this cremation,

aim your wax bullets at

this incendiary mind, O daydreams!

Pull the trigger and witness

the splatter - a freshly moulded cerebral terrain.

BLEEDING DUSK

Devoured by time,

The sun’s crimson carcass

Lay across the horizon.

 The scavenging dusk begins its feeding frenzy.

This is an incendiary ecosystem

To humble our bloated earthly affairs.

Forgive my wistful predation,

For my gun holds no bullets, but merely

contemplative darts forged in solitude!

The gunshots pierce through dusk.

  The opiate stream of bleeding shadows

tend to my brooding friend, NOSTALGIA

AUTUMN

(In anticipation of the upcoming dewy season)

I dip my mind into the mist

And through pensive strokes

Upon the canvas of reveries

I Paint the portrait of autumn!

This jasmine-studded gateway is my escape

from livelihood's intoxicating prison.

Like the harvest that

fortifies nourishment's primordial empire,

Ambition emboldens my journey.

But my path resembles the post harvest field that

turns host to bovine herds during day

And

The wraith-like herd of dew at night.

My thoughts often wander and join them

never to return,

Like a herd of self annihilating cattle.

I am left to harvest fresh ones in my mind where

autumns herald the fragrant advent of hope

And winters respond with frigid dejection.

BLADED DREAMS

The mind has been bearded for too long.

Its congregation of bristles grows

heavy with every thought.

Swaying to the breeze of fear, they bend back

towards the neuronic landscape.

This is a mass stabbing that occurs with ruthless regularity.

Hope's pantheon floats

above this punctured terrain.

They have been the introverted victors

of countless wars below.

As for the spoils of war?

Their most prized trophies are those bladed dreams

retrieved from the corpses of fallen ambitions.

It is time for a clean shave.