Queer

and then, one lazy morning

that came without a promise

carpe diem turned a believer of forevers

The Fable Called Forever

Not all love stories are meant to be poetry

Some love stories are the making of obituaries

Not all love stories are meant to be in love

Some love stories are the making of wars

Everything is fair in love and war, someone once said

And love was never the same anymore

Once you've drawn parallels between love and war

Bloodshed is romance; inflicting wounds, foreplay

Piling corpses are but martyred lovers, after all

But then, what happens to the ones that survive the war, once the war's over

But then, what happens to the ones that survived the love, once the love's gone

Shipwrecks don't believe in forevers

The Birth of Revolution

Once upon a time, there used to be a king. A king whose folklores were bigger than his statues, and his riches. Now, the problem with folklore is, they are great stories, but stories, nevertheless. Unless, taken to be gospel truth! But then, that’s the thing with literal people; they will take anything and everything literally! In the 21st century, they’d go on to be called mystics and journalists!

So, this king had folklore about him, about how he came from humble ways and rose to power to become a king. How he sacrificed his wife for the sake of the kingdom and its greater good, how he went from rags to royalty with the determination to serve people. Now, all of these were folktales, or as people in the 21st century would call it, PR strategies. Now, most of the commoners were happy believing these folklores to be gospel truth. Because it gave them hope. But then, like always, people of reason turned up and tried spoiling the fun. The people of reason were then tried for treason; while the stubborn ones were executed, the ones who knew to suit their conveniences, turned ministers at the court of the very same king.

But then, folklores are only as good as fuckups allow them to be. And thus, began the tale of the king’s fuckups. There were droughts, and there were deaths. There were plagues, and there was pandemonium. Soon, more and more people began siding with the men of reason. And the king did what he had to do, to ensure he stayed in power.  He overruled reason with religion. And, if history has taught us anything, it is this, that religion always takes over reason. While the masses perished to dwindling fortunes, the messiah feasted on gold armchairs. Religion had found its latest ambassador. Newer folklore replaced the older ones in no time; people were happy with their clay gods and brick temples.

On an ominous afternoon, a court musician drowned himself to death, in country liquor. Some lamented the death, some, the demise of talent, while the rest just watched. Hours after his funeral, a rumour hit the surface for the first time: he did not drown himself in alcohol, he was probably tricked and forced into it. But then, back in those days, rumours were only as good as rumours; in short, just another passing folklore. But then, the king saw an opportunity that could turn him immortal. He indulged the rumour to be passed on, until it turned a wildfire. With every mouth it passed, it turned from a folklore to a legend, and before people knew, they were an integral part of this revolution. The revolution, they didn’t know, existed! Their revolution was for the crime to be punished, but then no one quite fitted the descriptions. Over time, the list of suspects grew longer and longer, and the chances of a conclusion got bleaker and bleaker. But the people, the people were too intoxicated to get over it, so they continued the revolution, this time calling it justice for the dead. And that right there, was history being scripted, by people who believed they were fighting for a cause. No one knows what happened to the revolution afterwards, but it sure did not have an outcome to remember. So, folklore taught the generations to come, that, it was the fight that mattered, not the outcome.

In a parallel world of logic and reason, it was just another death in space. That ended in a death. No king, no folklore, no revolution, no history. Just another death.

Justice can be served to the living. The dead can only be remembered. Death is too final and impenetrable; justice for the dead is like a birthday for the unborn. It’s not a concept, not even an abstract; it’s irrelevant.

The kingdoms prevailed though. They just came to be known as governments.

Darkest Hour

have you ever been scared

not the fear that keeps you awake in midnight essays
not the fear that wraps in stranger nightmares
not the fear that knocks you awake with a stutter to stale breakfasts
not the fear that blankets itself in acquainted ethics and etiquettes

it's the fear that lumps your throat and no matter how much you've had yourself drunk in water, it stays
it's the fear that numbs your mirth and no matter how much you've had yourself betrayed in a plastic smile, it doesn't leave
it's the fear that nulls your existence and no matter how much you've had yourself convinced in the need for survival, it just stays
it's the fear that pulls your pride apart and no matter how much you've had yourself proved in the rat-race of blinded sheep, it just doesn't leave

have you ever felt insane; helplessly trapped because you know you've been losing sanity
have you ever been scared that the fear that's kept you alive will eventually turn the fear that ends it all

I'd Rather Die

tomorrow when they burn me to ashes
don't cry a river; for ashes are blind
don't write obituaries; for pyres can't hear
don't wish for the deed to be undone; for afterlives are beyond desires

tomorrow when they burn me to ashes
don't...

just let it be
for none of it would matter

i'd take a bullet, alive
than poetry, dead

Fire and Ice

i dream of unspeakable things
the ones that inscribe fresh goosebumps on faint wrinkles

- smite

The Blackhole Theory

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, death is real, but ghosts are fiction
And yet, skeletons in the closet of your skin
Do they ever stop haunting?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Beacuse, birth is real, but beginnings are fables
And yet, stories in the novel of your skin
Do they ever find closures?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, existences are real, but happily ever afters are make-beliefs
And yet, the goosebumps in the imagined spaces of your skin
Do you ever stop chasing?

In a life of beings, we've been drowning to the love of stories
And stories are not about truths; stories are about climaxes
And you are the climax of your own story and the anticlimax elsewhere; for the rest you are but a mere chapter or a stanza maybe

And what do you get when you weigh truths, life against love?
And what do you get when you divide one by none?

Frankenstein Fear

What is more dangerous?

The demons that they say lurk inside you
The monster you make of you knowing their perceptions of you
Or
The idea that it's all odds and evens; that it's all black or white

Could you ever tell?