Silence is...

mistaken to be a weakness and never seen as endurance. But is endurance only for the gullible and weak? I often wonder,

sought as a resort from the jarring madness that words are.Exorbitant vacations in the most exotic of locations can not match up to the respite from the need of conversation or mindless talk to keep up with the social pressure of networking.But is solitude only for the introspecting? I often wonder.

the laboratory of a mad genius and the perfect stillness that is before the most revolutionary of experiments are stirred in thought and then expressed.But is isolation only for the madmen? I often wonder.

the offence of a lone wanderer when the world calls to join in its material revelry and then blazes at them the sounds synthesized by echo in the hollow spaces that resound in pluralism of the crowd.But is the wilderness only for the fakir? I often wonder.

the indifference of a cynic when misplaced activism is eating into its own purpose by meddling with the jammed up cogs of the structure and in turn destroying what is left of them or empowering them by oiling their churning to be crushed under the implications.But is reason only for a philosopher to ponder?I often wonder.

the medium I chose to express what I can not put in words, it is heavy, it is meaningful , it is a pause, a much needed one. My words can be undermined my silence never taken for granted. But is silence only for the shaken, the broken, the suppressed and the cowards.You will know of what I often wonder.

Filthy Hands

My bare hands and I,
we leave prints around ,
One is the dot, the sun's eclipse spot.
another a cross mark on the ground.

I cut my fingers on barbed wire,
have burnt fate's lines in the fire,
and then dyed them in black or red,
for graffiti or simply bled.
bled from self,sometimes of other
and to cleanse them have I never bothered.

The earth in nails from the potters wheel
and the glass from mosaic on the walls
embedded in souls of my palms

like time frozen in instance of build

and the places where they have crawled.

They have folded themselves in
contemplation.
what  is thought and prayer at times.
They have held back in consideration

at others they have crossed the line.

They have given in dread of mistrust
and taken by a sincere thrust.
they have rested on a restless heart
and then stopped it in a clench  of fist
they have rubbed a temple in subdued thought
and then coaxed it to not resist.

they have held a warm body,cold and clinical

they have traced passion on beautiful forms

and have synchronized with tidal storms

cured the cold faces with their warmth,

in either my desire or their want

they have held and let go not for long.

fidgety devils in indecision

gods in rights of their precision.

my filthy hand will wash off one another.
my filthy hands will wash off one another.

Lamenting(part III)

Of all the things I undo,
and undo as knotted strings,
I have learnt to fret not
but rue the misgivings,
of a woman so foolish in love,
or a man so blind in logic
 so staunch in pride
that vulnerability sheers to tragic
and to have them both in one,
fragile glass like frame,
both daunting at the surface,
both extremes in the same.

Of all the things I rue,
I rue one not my own,
such object of a life,
misplaced in misfortune,
I  could feel the two spirits in me,
I wonder if he had one,
What flames does it take
 for the soul to twist and turn,
be such as a coil of a weak alloy
be such as the vapours of
a substance smoked to dry.

Of all the things I give up,
I give into this one rue,(I hoped forgetting was brisk)
oblivion never found my doorstep,
it was in haste to find you. (easier to find stone obelisks)
Of all the things I love,
I wonder what is my passion,
An unnatural borne progression,
Epicene in it's nature,
for you were dead I now know,
 the two spirits in hate I harbour.

The rebounds and the leftovers.

Ricochet, Ricochet,
My words rebound,
Ricochet, ricochet,
there's is a dying sound,
the beat never dies,
the percussion alive
as the drums of the war roll,
and you claim not your share of the toll.
We are in a fight,
You do it wrong,
I did it right?
There's a  membrane so thin,
 that it collapses within
when you knock on that door,
there is rebound no more,
just a gossamer we tore.
and the dying scavenge,
left overs of revenge,
There are no fixes here,
just the wounds that need to mend,
Ricochet, Ricochet,
the paths we walk will bend,
Then there is no turning back,
there is a road to pretense,
I will burn that field around it,
You will not be alee ,
the wind will grip you in it,
and my flames you can not flee.
I was the smoke,
a bitter smoke,
a puff that torched your eyes,
Oh you blinded man of fire
she thought of you a flame,
oh you blinded man of cinders,
smoke and fire are not the same,
oh you foolish man of  common,
You became such wet timber,
Oh you foolish man of common,
I was not smoke nor the water.
Oh, you foolish man of common,
I was the wind, I was the air,
that kept flame alive
and you can not see or bear.
Embers, oh the embers,
I'll spark them and they will fray
and the fire will set alight, wet timber.
Ricochet.
burn, will you burn?
no, please ignite,
the flame that I can feed,
the fire that I need.
I'll rekindle you with the fire,
her passions and desire.
Oh, wet timber.
oh the surrounding hay and twigs,
I want to blow the leftovers away,
Ricochet.

A temple of thought that is as ruined and refined.
debris that pierce through ravages of time,
A wail echoes like chants in it's prime,
deep abyss, oh depth of the dead.
sleeping like those who never rise,
a requiem is all left of a reprise.
reeking of the rot,
the dead leave to the living
through graves they dig
and thoughts in engravings.
they never change.
Are we dead enough?
Are they living enough?

Le Proof....

Often as I have quoted the same
There is a cure to bursting pleasure,
it's sporadic remains.
a sensation to cease
a stab of a pain
but numbness,
 a curse beyond mundane.
wince and write off,
in a 'whence'
and then with a sly
I wrote in a nudge
to all fowl cry.
"tell me(if at all there exists), the antidote
to Novocaine"

I am Leaving.

Take my eyes and look at me now, the last time you'll see me.
I am going, vanishing at the light frames, vanishing with all sounds and names, vanishing with all that I said, vanishing in dark or light's own tread.
A ghost disappears, such false existence,
a whiff, a chaff , a gnawing rodent.
 despise , I despise,
I'll leave nothing behind
yet everything behind.
and in a lost claustrophobic being
rests closed contempt,
and contempt needs no space, no place to grow,
I despise, despise, I leave behind,
but contempt will not seed, as I throw.
It fissures in from cracks in me,
a growing pain is a remedy.
it flows , it flows, it brims out.
charring flesh like lava's spout.
the skin I never had to wear,
the skin at which I gnawed to tear
and the bones that are full of a restless fear
the flesh that needs fire to douse
it all has to disappear.
You keep my eyes,
the last of what you see me as.
I am leaving.
they have seen inside, you and me,
and insight to you and me,
a hindsight to you and me,
not a foresight for you and me,
I leave behind
I bequeath, a world that I had to see,

A marvel at which I could flee.
my eyes have seen it inside out
and I hope they impair none about
your sight, your flight,
your varied dreams be
fragile as they were meant to be.
A face that masked the better
I set alight,
and my eyes did glitter
at another face that steals in the wood,
and let you know the ghosts in the hood..
I am leaving, forever,
a long long time
and if the route of your still crosses mine,
I plead, keep my eyes,

see me as I am,  I was, I were, I seem.
My eyes also enclose a dream.
keep them, don't frown at them
don't laugh at them
don't cry at them
I have lost you,
I'll find me
my eyes with you.
I have your sight,
your sense
your sensations
My tears, I'll take from them.
I am leaving.
I have all I need.