Lovers in dark!

Lovers in dark!

And, what now my dear, what you propose

For it is darker than ever, blackish as never

Here we hide behind shadows holding hands

While our heart beats faster than ever

For you might wish to lend me your heart

I might assure you not to let it fall upon rocks and break

But heaven knows what we intend to by dawn, futile

For tongues cannot stand erect and eyes cannot see in dark, yet

Whispering our secrets behind ears, unfolding self

That might not be best decoration our bodies held upon

Yet as I wear you, you wear me, our desire in flames

Passionate but mute, deaf and blind, drunk on lust

Lies, that it might turn out to be, and how beautiful one

To stand behind bushes, hidden from whole crowd

Dancing, singing cheering, unknown of us

We unknown of them, making love, thus unquestionable

But, beware, keep the shadows away; do not wish to put on light

Let us remain unseen, let us remain hidden, for

Veil of character; as placed, must remain intact, or gone

It might tear us apart, for vultures to feast upon

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 23/10/2014

Hangover!

Scribbling:

“He woke up and stumbled upon broken pieces of glasses still lying upon floor, as those pieces of dream he had all night fading slowly yet few pieces sticking upon his eyebrows, outside his half shut half open eyes. Night ran down as fast as his glasses of scotch and he was lost again, feeling resins of darkness still hanging in that bright blanket of dawn, while the sun smiled through and robbed him of his part of intimacy he was promised before gulping down several of those rounds while night was still young and thoughts were still building up. He wasn't sure whether he could pick up all those pieces; broken glass or dreams, one by one, knew it would continue to hurt in either case, he lay down again, shut his eyes and hoped to go back to where he was.

Alas! Hangover is like a sadistic lover, one who inflicts at you all those pieces, watches you scream while attempting to wake up while consoling you sarcastically, for he knows you can’t do much but to continue to roll up and down like a trapped mouse in a little box of steel.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Turmoil!

Turmoil!

Shadows upon eyes

Eyes upon dead

Dead walks alive

Carrying slain head

For, to witness own shadow

In backdrop of darkness

Having eyes bright and teeth sharp

Shining, As if a wolf

Standing in front

Drenched in sweat and blood

Blood thick and red

Red, as if fire

Fire that burns

In this tranquil hour

Of turmoil instead

Turmoil within mind

What lies ahead

Ahead being a pit

Pit that could hide,

When becomes grave

Grave, for where else

Could rest a slave

Slave, one who dreams to strangle

Self, beneath hoard of skin and flesh

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 17/10/2014

Scribbling

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He stared upon dead monitor for long, as long as it felt him alive, as it carried a half naked photo, of someone he did not know about. His mind rejected it as trash; his heart fell in love with its mischievous presence, while his body wanted her around, wanted to kiss, lick, stroke. He felt chaos, a big deal of it, it was noise, one he never liked yet it came back and again, in the veil of darkness and solitude, to haunt him. It scared him, it persuaded him, and it made him linger upon a blank space where his own weight wanted him to bury beneath his shadows.

To die is easier when you know nothing of, being unknown, unseen, unheard, like a wind from dead mountains to crying seas. To live is difficult, even if you have seen yourself in mirror, straight in own eyes despite lights being off, in the vicinity of bedroom, where the phantom lies.

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It was silent, silent as if there were no one alive, alive as if they would never die. For it is the fear of death that makes us scream, scream to fill our heart and mind with noise, noise that corrupts the soul, makes it deaf and dumb, so they keep on crying and crying and nobody notices, and after all why should anyone? What’s new in someone’s crying over one thing or other. That has been our trail while designing civilization. To cry! Cry over making rules, cry over rule-breaking, cry to have more, cry to have none, cry to love, cry to hate, and cry to laugh, cry to cry. Cry, cry, and cry. Oh such madness!

He wanted to stop and concentrate, for suddenly he was not even able to hear his heartbeat or the whisper of his breathes; which used to tell him stories, in bits and pieces, flying here and there. While wind blew north to south, they said it carried unheard voices trapped in mountains, mountains who watched them rise and fall, like dawn and dusk, and yet somewhere time remained trapped beneath that thick layer of ice, like life in slums beneath glittering sky-scrappers.

But it was all silent this moment. Silent as if dead were waiting to wake-up. He had learnt how footsteps of ghosts caused no sound. He looked around, were anyone around? A ghost! Even that thought amazed him, gave him shiver, but not one that frightens but out of curiosity. He wanted to see a ghost since childhood. And whenever he thought so he touched his own body, he wanted to make sure he is not a ghost himself. He wished to look into own eyes, but alas! How could one look into own eyes, After all how could a ghost see another ghost, for if it could be so people would have recognized each other dead long ago.  Oh pity!

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 09/10/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:

“And again, he was sitting on the train, zooming past cities in slumber, slumber as if never to wake up again, as if ghosts have taken over lamp posts, lamp posts that screams of being tired of watching whole city crawl from dawn to dusk every day beneath and wonders who is cursed, he who has to watch them crawl daily, or they, who has to crawl daily beneath it.

Passing by silent fields holding blanket of darkness, darkness that lets many breathe, breathe as if suffocating for ages buried in light, light that keeps them unseen, unseen as if they do not exist, for darkness lets us see what light can never show.

Passing by woods and trees-still as if frozen in moment, moment that sways in silent nights, nights that brings them back buried in layers of skin one wears, wears as if faces-many, few, some, who knows but standing still they get a chance to hold on to those swaying moments and cherish upon them while firefly plays hide and seek around.

And, there was the moon, watching him watch him, through the thick window glasses; they know each other, for a long time now. They never spoke, never stood together, and could never hold onto each other before getting lost again in the grey clouds of life. They only saw each other often passing by, wandering, and wondering if they are to witness each other witnessing those sleeping cities, silent fields, frozen woods and swaying moments.

As they travelled that night together, again."