Scribbling...

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“There is something special about darkness, which haunts one, confronts one, saddens one, cheers one, brings one to life, lets other sleep forever. To meet it in its raw solitude, witness it in all its simplicity, just for being there, calm and silent; there are no force acting upon you in darkness, no noise but a hypnotizing chaotic silence. You choose what to hear, what to scream, what to cry for, what to look at, and it lets you continue generously as if nothing to complain, nothing to demand. You are the god in the sea of darkness; it lets you choose and decide and lets you mold it the way you want. May be because it knows you might exist just for that moment in its embrace. May be it knows you will come to accept it back sooner or later. May be it knows it will live for eternity, may be it knows it would die the very moment someone lights the candle, may be it knows it would exposed to the core by the dawn, yet may be it still exists for it carries nothing to hide, it has no secrets, no regrets, no remorse, no smiles, no tears. It remains there, as if it is not the sun but the darkness which nourishes the universal life. There is no reproach, no repulsion, no attraction, for no one can define it, may be for it is only the darkness who defines us all at the end. It accompanies us from womb to our graves, a silent companion we often miss to acknowledge.”

Flames of Love!

Flames of love

Mirage in desert

You dread it

To not to be real

Yet you die

Running behind it

Not knowing when

You started loving your thirst

Flames of desire

Half-burnt candle at night

Braving through winds

You dread to see it

Extinguished

Yet you wait for darkness

To take over

Not knowing when

You started loving

Lying half-naked, and

Secrets whispered in your eyes

Flames of lust

Sound of rain

You dread it

For you cannot hear

The chirping of birds

For warmth of sunshine

Is eclipsed by dark clouds

Yet you secretly wish

It not to stop, but pour

For it would keep her

From going, that morning

While you drench each other

Until drowned

Flames of passion

Double edged sword

You dread walking upon

For you would end up dead

Either way

Yet you cannot stop,

But dance

For its music

Enthralls you

For life feels safe

Closer to death

For life blooms

In its embrace,

Chaos of love! ”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 28/12/2015

Waking up...!

“A few dry leafs

A few fallen memories

Broken out of turbulent winds

Beneath shadow of life

Counting and recounting days

Before being trampled upon

Walked by, seen-unseen

Only to fade through

Dust of time

A death rather slow

Two eyes too shallow

A heart to follow

While void of solitude

Swallows oneself

Deep down

Alleyways of lungs

Where secrets scream

Ready to tear down

Hollow walls of flesh and bones

Droplets of blood might

Bring it back to life

A ray of hope

A ray of life

But soon the dawn arrives

Drowned in that glass

Placed by the window

Where sunrays falls, and

Though taps gently;

Dies another dream

Like a bubble

Being touched

They are lost, just like that…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 26/12/2015

Dead Love!

Let us melt,

And be one;

Let us rain

Drop by drop

Attempting to fill

A broken flower-pot

By the door, Oh dear!

Let us wipe

Each other clean

For every kiss

Which we blew

Left a trail

This would lead the world

Right onto

Our sins, the lust

Let us wake-up

And let it all

Vanish, just another blink

As if nothing happened

For whatever happened

Was not meant to happen

After-all, silly us

Let us lie down

And dream;

For every scene

We rehearsed so far

Out there

Has turned out to be

A nightmare

Let us inhale

Each other, and

Go deep down

Into the lanes of lungs

Where secret dies

Let us part ways

Let us say good-by

Let us hug and whisper

Adieus mon amour

And smile a little

Awkwardly, only to

Get going. Alas!

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 14/12/2015

Whispers!

Let me caress my wounds

Let me hold my heart ajar

Before dusk wades through the thoughts

Before the moon fades through the night

Before eyelids fall heavily upon

Dreams uncared for

As I watch myself falling in

Bits and pieces

Words upon paper

Random at their best

For who else could represent a spectre

An identity unidentified

A shadow unmasked

As it sways through

Moonlight, sparkling visuals

Of past and future

For there was never a present

It passed before I could realize

It was there to hold onto

I sit by the window and look

Beyond those uncharted territory

Of darkness, of words left unsaid

Of what-ifs

Of brave attempts

Of cowardly escapes

As the ice melts slowly in the glass

And dilutes the liquor

As if trying to dilute the nightmare

Only to offer a dream

Unasked for

For addicted to bitter hellos

Often finds it hard to swallow sweet adieus

As if merchants of chaos

Laughs upon pieces of peace on offer

For flesh and blood must be offered

In exchange of a piece of stained paper

And be murdered silently

Or to say fall asleep, being gentle”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 11/12/2015

Thoughts!

“For the thoughts mean

How do we choose to feed

A mind docile

A heart stubborn

While thoughts - a continuum

At times monstrous

At times affable

With choice all the same

To nurture one we decide

To leave another at its own peril

For we are our thoughts

Expressed or repressed alike

Meekness to follow

Will to confront

Generous at times

And we are to grow”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 08/12/2015

The Lust!

“As pure as scorpion’s sting,

Were their lust

For it hit them hard

And made them high

As dark as the dusk without moon

Were their lust

For it let them rip apart

Bits and pieces of desire

And set on fire

They smoked and drank, and

Watched the house burn

Made up of bricks of their body

As subtle as the idea of love to many,

As crude was their lust

For it let them taste each other

Blood they bleed through twilight

For they did not know

Could not know

Would not know

What love means, but lust!

As pure as an evening rain

Were their lust

For it did let them keep the smell

Of sweat drenched skin

Banished beyond days

Away from good old gaze

They had nothing but to

Hold up the rage - of lust

As silent as the night could be

As chaotic was their love

For they could no longer be heard

Their passion screamed out loud

Slaves of body

Mastered the art

Touched it if they must

And crafted a piece of lust”

By: Praveen Parasar

By: 07/12/2015

Scribbling:

Scribbling:

"Bound to love some, dislike some

What good pretending otherwise would do?

Let us do a favor and accept it as it is..."

Scribbling

"To hear, what we like to hear
To see, what we decide to see
To feel, what feels good to feel
To appear, as we intend to please;
self, more than others - though it may appear otherwise
Manipulation! We being masters of the art."

Longing!

"How longings do end?

How subconscious does play game

How we watch them being ignorant

While our ignorance does more then to fuel the flame

Flames of desire, of deep-rooted passions

Flames of suppressed emotions

Flame of half-burnt mechanical smiles and cries

It all burns bright while the evening grows dark and cold

Where would one get to confront

Where would lead this game of

Hide and seek, manipulative hunt

For hunters does play victims well

Made up to see ourselves

Given to choose of our own faces

Buried beneath self-convictions

We often end up choosing a shadow, alas!

With eyes half-closed, half-open

Pretending to see – unsee still

Only to end up being empty despite being filled

Wandering through the mirage of life, had we willed

An attempt to accept,

An attempt to rejoice

What we sung along,

Which we wouldn’t give voice

A memory to sleep with

A dream to wake up to

Dreading to go beyond pain

We are to end up asking again,

How longings do end?"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 02/12/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Moments, when you feel chocking by your own voice; your words strangling you and every attempt to scream turns into a scene of massacre, where you find yourself scattered around in bits and pieces. He felt same at that moment. He wanted to speak, he wanted to tell her his story, he wanted to speak of the danger she might be in, he wanted to do his bit – however insignificant; for he knew in that town once marked red you cannot escape the edge of blades. Nobody knew whose name was next, might be himself.He knew he must remain silent and wait for her, he was here just to collect information.

Blade! Simple and double edged; easy to carry, even easier to use. You hold it in your fingers and in a flash it lets you taste blood.  You could even hide it in your mouth.  It was quite a favorite instrument in neighborhood. People preferred it for bullets was costly, and it was easy to get caught carrying a knife. Instead, blade was beyond doubt, after-all how else people could keep themselves clean shaven, neat and tidy. Nobody was stopped carrying a blade, and slowly it was selling as hot cake.

He did practice the art of hiding blades in his mouth for several weeks. His most of inner mouth was slashed in the process, he could not eat for days, to speak anything was even difficult; yet it was sort of addiction he felt his craving growing every day. He wanted to master the art, for he thought it would make him formidable against anyone without much fuss. Soon, he used to slide down blades inside his mouth beneath his tongue as if no big deal. Taste of his own blood used to make him feel high.

He remembers the scene he used his blade for the first time. He was walking down the alleyway that evening and there was a guy moving carelessly towards his car. He had not planned it, but suddenly his hands acted and next moment that guy was holding his throat which had already turned into a fountain of blood. He could not make up his mind of what took his life first, drained out bloods or the surprise slash of fine steel. Dead man’s bulged out eyes were as lifeless as that bar his car stood out of, while he continued walking towards the bar that guy came out of – like nothing happened.

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“She appeared to him like a night he could take a refuge in without a confrontation to his diluted past or concentrated future. He found himself like a thought lost in abyss seeking a shelter in the night’s door; which appeared mystified by its chaotic silence.

He remembers walking through that door that evening and how she without even looking at him passed him a glass of scotch at the counter. He felt she knew instantly what he was looking for; perhaps she could see through the body and soul. She felt to him like that tiny hour at sunrise or sunset that makes you confess to your crimes without even a little effort.

‘I am here to kill’ – he whispered when she came near to pour another round of scotch. She raised her face a little and went back to her business, as if it was nothing new. He felt surprised, he had just given away his secret and yet she did not react. He felt small in front of her grand shadow. He thought how every minute she must have been facing several like him day and night. For sure why should she bother who he was here to kill for, for it was a town of killers. To kill was as much a daily business, as buying vegetables in that locality. Killers were seen with certain awe, after-all they gave them hope that there was still some life in that ash covered smoked town which killers could choose to end. They felt alive at that thought. Killers were respected as a messiah of life who could take it back whenever he wished, and why not, for people owed it to them.  

He was lost in thought when she came near him again to pour another glass, but this time she drew a little too near and whispered with care – go to room 13, you will find what you need. He was drunk enough to be stunned and sober enough to resist, he simply gulped down his glass and moved towards stairs. It was already past mid-night.”

She!

"For she was like the night

That melts itself by the dawn

Little Dew drops upon

Flowers; as they bloom

For she was like the night

That let stars shine

And pretending fine

She lets her darkness grow

For it’s always someone’s darkness

That brings light to another

And someone’s ruins

Upon which other’s dreams flourish;

Being young; this tempts one into

Her dimension, only

To be disappointed

Often, for she never misses

To return the favor

She was like the night

This lets no one see her;

For it is either too dark

Or too bright - filled with moon-light

To be worried about

What she asks for, to

What she gives,

While she continues to smile

In the backyard of one’s ignorance."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 29/11/2015

Scribbling

Scribbling:

“You either think or love

You either think or hate

You either don’t do or just overdo”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It was raining, and he was still sitting on the chair by her body, dead by now. He looked every now and then at the blade he had killed her with, it was carrying her warm blood upon it, it had her smell in it, a distinct smell he could sense miles away, it was as if she had cast a spell upon him since the moment he walked by the doors of that bar that night and saw her seeing him. He did feel puzzled yet decided to enjoy the feeling, for it was exotic for him. She was like a tango music which makes you groove despite not knowing it, all tangled up.

He could hear someone playing at a distance through the noise of storm, and there was she lying in silence, still as much alive she was few hours ago, before he killed her. He felt a strong urge to touch her, blood upon her neck was tempting him, as if she was calling him to taste her. He put the blade back into his pocket and slowly went near and held her close. He did not want to hurry, he did not want to wake her up from that long sleep, and she continued to rest upon his shoulder. She felt to him like a piano he could play all night, dead yet alive, which haunts one through its whispering screams, all he needed was to touch her and tap her here and there to let the song out of her float in that night; drunk upon her eyes, lifeless yet giving a hope of afterlife to him.

He undressed her slowly while continuing to hold her close, dancing to that distant music, he felt he too would melt and would be washed ashore. She was like a sea asking him to let go and submerge. He kissed her dry lips, licked her cheeks, let his hand run through her body all across, his fingers were thrilled, he felt the rush of blood in his veins, and it was becoming a goblet of fire. Even in the rain he felt dry as a lotus leaf; for he was already drenched by her.

He did realize suddenly, it was time to go, he could no longer hold onto that precious creation he had just ruined, as if a flower plucked off the stems. He looked into her lifeless eyes one more time, he saw himself eclipsed by her. Scribbled all across his body, she had become his poetry, and he felt being owned by her now.

He slowly put her down by the wall, draped her in a shawl and glanced at her one last time; she was as alive as ever. He felt embarrassed for he failed to understand her poetry and yet she had given him words to scribble. He would write her a poem someday, he murmured and walked back. Someone was still playing the music at distance.

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“As the virgin sun-rays touched the skin in the early hours of yet to bloom day of young winter, its warmth filling the heart with a joy inexpressible in words and while I sit there watching it embrace me, another thought sneaks through a corner in mind – same rays would be deflowered and robbed of their warmth by the hands of harsh winter days soon, and then it would be only in shades that It’s warm touch would remind me of a love, which was supposed to melt me, but alas! Ended up freezing me; while I watch the flame of passion diminish slowly in eclipse of oppressed dictates of fate. Only to sadden me even amidst that joyous moment, I carry a part of its longing and desire to witness it one more time brighter and warmer, I let myself burn in bits and pieces. I would wait for November again.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“Imagine being locked in a dark room with no sound, how do you exist there, how would you or could you prove your existence to anyone including yourself. For there your body does not exist, your sense of self remains lost in the deep abyss of your mechanical mind, and all your ideas about life and death remains at large wondering of an escape. But, escape to where, being in n universe filled with dark matter all around, what it is if not a mere illusion carrying a matchbox. For at the end you would have to enter into reign of darkness, where nothing exists but consciousness – of being, not physical but metaphysical abstract. Where either you are connected to everything or you do not exist. Where all attempts to take over through mechanical invention are bound to fail amidst noisy chores of continuous attempts of proving oneself superior while trying desperately to control not knowing whom. Such has been tragedy of our existence; We were given ability to create, we mastered ability to destroy. We were taught to learn, we mastered art of manipulation. We were gifted with reason, we mastered pretention. Alas!
Though question would still arise what brought inside such huge dark room? May be nothing did or maybe it was always there; we just made up stories to convince ourselves of our intelligence and superiority deriving conclusions that were never there, and what else but only to make a fool out of ourselves.

Broken Thread!

“A piece of broken thread

Inside pages of a withered old book

Rusted, a bit dusted yet lying there

Holding onto stories it lived with,

Carrying words it died with

Did one use it to stitch wounds?

Or snatched it from bleeding heart ajar

Did one strangled oneself with it,

Or tried to hang another

Was it to burn within a candle?

To lighten up dark alleyways,

Or it was there to trip one

While passing by, and to fall

Stories untold, as this thread unfold

As the pages lay bare

As those words wear

As one holds broken thread as dear

As a piece of self

A piece of broken thread

Holding onto bits and pieces of solitude…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 17/11/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

“As the night came swiftly

She wore blackish attire

Carrying a dark smile

Holding onto her many shadows

She wore the moon

As if a bright diamond

Flashing onto eyes of curious on-lookers

While it’s sharp edges cut through their veins

Unaware one kept looking

As if to quench an ever unquenched heart

It rained stars, droplet of dreams

But, only to drench oneself

In the pool of nightmare

And while one – deprived of vigor

Drowns in its silent chaos

It offers to take the pain away, but only

At the cost of giving over

Self, one who blinks first

She tempted melancholia

While promising bright days ahead

Poor man fell in the trap

As one falls in the bog

Only to be lost in own screams

For every struggle turns fatal

And, every cry for help comes back

Only to haunt, for only if

He could help but sink

Slowly, while watching darkness owe him

In bits and pieces, and few words

Scribbled upon bare skin, alas!”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 05/11/2015

Scribbling

:

“Full moon in the night sky

As if an ice-cube in glass

Floating, melting,

Half-drowned, half-sunk

Taste it with care

For it could make you drunk…”

Existence!

"Individualistic existence is like that of God's particle, you do not exist for anyone else but yourself, nobody knows about you, nobody appears to recognize your being but you. You float across as winds sail by remaining there as one breathes high and low. Such existence are destructive, you cannot expect them to build you dreams, it could give you moments at its best, moments that make that momentarily existence worth the risk, risk that wreck you in and out. It might end up leaving you neither dead nor alive but it will certainly give you an instinct to feel the vibe of life, life that goes beyond certain rules, rules that define life for many, life that doesn’t exist for most.

It is often hard to imagine one beyond a shoulder to hang on to. We need a figure to look unto, to dream of, to romanticize into, and to idealize oneself to. We make gods who characterize best of us, who could love better, who could live better, who could fight better, we crave lovers who inspire us in the dead of nights to lead us into soul-searching, and we immortalize images for we need someone to tag along while passing by dead of darkness. To confront self in those dark moments are scary and we often contemplate ourselves as weaker as one could end up being, it might end up one being on his knees scared to raise his eyes for he would get to see himself ready to strangle his throat for being a coward.

Dead of nights could be devastating, it might cut your veins open and ask you to watch it till the last drop fall apart, only to lick it all back before dawn spreads its wings asking you to fall back in line. Life reacts in no other way. A night alone in the woods, by the stream beneath a dark sky could resemble a whole life, where you might end up dreaming of the moon or end up jumping down the stream to drown yourselves.

Probably that makes it beautiful, that instinctive approach, that momentarily life. That is not supposed to last any longer but as long it takes to destroy oneself. Probably life is all about destroying self as gloriously as possible, what else. Wonder!

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 22/10/2015

The Night!

"The night was young and he was drunk, wandering in the darkness, looking for North Star to position him at the edge, to save him from falling over, but where the star was, for dark night had other plans for him. It was seducing him slowly to commit unknown. Isn’t it an adventurous feeling to enter into woods without knowing how to get out and remain lost for ages?

As anticipated he did fall over and is wandering ever since, it is often a matter of that moment when you realize you are about to fall, your sense telling you to step back but your sixth sense encouraging to jump, for you always wanted to fly.

He saw himself falling with the flow, smoothly, no turbulence at all. You do not feel being hit until you actually hit the ground. It happened same way. It was as rocky a surface as hard it could get. Tossed around as if pieces of droplet, one that had started journey expecting to taste the sea, but realities are often different then one imagines them to be. He could only imagine being by the Sea, while dying in that moment slowly.

The sea, he remembers standing in front of it and felling the grandness of it. It made him feel so small, tiny as non-existent. He dreaded touching those water fearing he might get drowned. And then suddenly a wave came and there was he in the water where he could not see, anything, hear any sound, felt none of bruises he received of those curious fishes. He was a lump of meat floating across. It was all so still and calm amidst all those turbulence around. You do not live till you feel the death. He let his lungs filled with salted water. It felt similar to having those glasses of dark rum.

He often dreamt of falling in a pit of snake, dreading to touch them he coiled himself like one and rolled over, but they thought him to be one of their own and started a fight to announce their right over this new one. He remembers their violent hissing at his skin, it felt like acid being spread over his body. His heart was beating as that distant sound of someone playing a drum. He was being touched by thousands of snakes at a time and the poison was melting his body and drop by drop he felt being diluted in the darkness of the night.

Standing in front of the mirror, he often saw the night close and personal. He went close, touched it, kissed it, and saw in the eyes of image. He saw the same night, he always dreamt of, a dark night, carrying a chaotic silence, whispering secrets of light while asking him to follow to the gorge.

Drink another glass, shakeup the scene, wake up, dance to the rhythms, and feel the ever so seductive night."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 20/10/2015

Carpe Noctem!

Scribbling:

“Being prisoner of own thoughts

He deserved to lose, laughed upon

For the night had watched him

Far too long; attempting to pretend.

A game he knew he would not win

Yet he gambled his soul

Only to be chained and put behind walls

Where darkness rubbed his wounds with salt

Wounds he had left open for too long

It had corrupted the flesh and bones

While pretending to save his soul

Only to gamble it away, like a ruined memory

Memory, what else made him

Stand to look in eyes of self, as if

To judge and give a verdict upon

Crimes he committed only he knew about

Self, wretched one, remained silent

Probably it knew being guilty of pretension

One he had been running from for ever

But, only to be caught red-handed, alas!”

Scribbling

“Falling down in pieces

Like droplets of rain,

Will I get a chance?

To recollect self,

While I fall upon a piece of rock

Or upon echoes of the sea,

Ecstasy of flight

Taking over lust of salvation”

Scribbling

Scribbling:

"Moments when your panache starts to dictate their terms and you find no other way then to follow like a sheep. Who could be the guilty after all if not yourself for allowing something to take over you while you enjoyed exaggerating it? Was that first sign of being loser, probably, or certainly. He wandered and wondered while hiding his face in the closet. it was too dark a night to show him his own flesh.  And it made him confront what he had been avoiding forever. After all you cannot run away from self for too long. Moments..."

Rest in Peace!

"When nothing makes you happy

But sadness

When only thing that excites you

Is tragedy

When only thing that makes you feel loved

Is being alone

For sight of the crowd makes you nothing

But lonely

When you can only see through it

At darkness

When days weighs you down only to look for

The dusk

When world seems to have lost hold of life

But dead

When it is only the hour of twilight that breathes a life

To those lifeless

When one drags through past

At present

When one attempts desperately to get hold of

The future

When you find your eyeballs watching you

Only to dread

When one regrets watching self secretly, being intimate

With flesh and bones, pen and paper.

When the moon reminds one of life at the death of

The sun

When one meets self trampling past an alleyway

As strangers

When sky seems to carry droplets that fell down

One’s eyes

While raindrops tap upon window pane

As if here to quench their thirst

When you find yourself scattered

At edge of broken mirrors

When you stop stitching yourself back, after being sliced,

And over again

When you know you are about to hit end of tunnel

Yet no slowing down

When you walk past yourself and whisper nonchalantly -

Rest in peace!"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 14/10/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Moments, when you cannot get high enough on alcohols but only blood, your own, which you must drain off your veins and collect in goblet you kept to grow a pair of dahlia by the window; Instead that goblet grew pair of eyeballs that hung there as if peeking in and watched him all through dusk attempting to drag himself out of that void. Void, which was sinking him down and deeper, there was no ground anymore beneath but an abyss. An abyss created out of his own flesh and bones, for his shadows were as shallow as drown dead body floating by a marsh.

It did not happen in one night, he did not even fall singe piece, for he was too stubborn to be dragged opposite so he insisted but hands of wall-clock pierced his ears and sliced through his lungs in the epitome of twilight, as if it were cooking a delicacy to serve the darkness, his royal highness, after all he was a faithful slave. And now, abandoned, Piece by piece he fell down as those notes hit the chord; his hands attempting to catch his leg, his leg trying to run behind his face, his face as twisted as a crooked finger-nail and made his heart screamed thinking of it a ghost. There was him falling down in pieces yet with a hope in his heart, his beloved night would catch him, stitch back his pieces, caress his scars and bring him back by the dawn before even he could himself realize he was neither alive nor dead but a spectre at large.” 

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

When suddenly out of nowhere he realized being at a crossroad, which way to go, which way to turn his back, which one to face up, dilemma was pinning down and it was a must for him to stand his ground. Strangely every side appeared to show his face, he felt he was walking down in all direction simultaneously, as they say in quantum mechanics of parallel universe he saw happening in that moment. Was he drunk, was he high or was he watching it happening being awake, he could not make up his mind. He kept on looking at them in certain awe. Apparently, none of those faces cared of him being there, they were acting as they did not know him; or may be knew him to be of no good to know. He was appearing wasted to himself. He felt embarrassed in front of them. He felt strong urge to prove them wrong, he screamed louder, and jumped down, away from them all. Alas! Force of gravity was too strong to design his speed, he could not breathe, black air filled his lungs and eyes burst out to give way to darkness within.

He remembers no more then, when he woke up to find his pieces lying all around. There was no face anymore. He did not exist even for himself anymore. He did not mind having no flesh and bones, for he just convinced self of being a stranger to him and shook hands. It was easier this way to carry scars of those violent moments of solitude. 

Drop by Drop!

Edward J. Steichen - Figure with Iris, 1902.

"Drop by drop

She collected darkness

And the night

Rolled down her cheeks

Onto her palms

This she raised

As if to let the moon

Taste her

In salted dreams

She carries

In her eyes

Where life gleamed

This she collected

Drop by drop

While passing by

The twilight hour

And lighted the path

For to show

Way to her dreams

Where they belong

Drop by drop

She collected herself

And the night

Watched her, mesmerized

For her wings

Made of broken glasses

Brought a thousand stars

Upon the earth

Beneath her feet

This she walked upon

Like a fawn

Scared a bit

Curious too

Watching night watch her

By the chasm

In the vicinity of moonlight

She kissed it

Held it close,

As if soul-mates

Who complete, fill

Complement each other, and

Drop by drop

They melted to be one

While the moon

Witnessed their romance

In chaotic silence."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 07/10/2015

Waylaid!

"What could man do without guilt?

A sense of fear, sense of shame

Sense of regrets being all over

Only to buried, beneath

Lies! One watered whole life

What could man do without hate?

A sense of wicked desire, sense to kill

Sense to smell blood taking over

Only to be burnt in the fire of hatred

One kept the flames high several nights

What could man do without death?

A passion to kill, urge to fill

Lands with dead, while

Pretending to be animal

One always thought self to be

What could man do without life?

A dreadful journey to commence

One hitting walls and again

Yet dragging through flesh and bones

Only to be lost in the void of own screams

What could man do without darkness?

Mirror, which shows one more than one could hide

And lays down his body bare open

To be loved, despite being drenched in filth

While maneuvering hard to be loved back, alas!"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 05/10/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

“Night screams

 Words whisper

A Lullaby

Solitude withered

Darkness offers solace

Embracing shadows

Fears howling

Trembling, stumbling

Eyes on a look out

Holding its place

Scars, stars

One must navigate through

In silence, at chaos

Loud heartbeat

Tick-tock, tick-tock”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 29/9/2015

Tale of a Night!

"Only if it would have been a night

A night that offers a glimpse

Glimpse of world, away and afar

This sees through gleams of star

Instead, this night offers dark alleyways

To steer through, unheard-unseen

For stars does not carry life tonight, but

Death, black and bleak as it deems

Death, for what else could paint it all black

Black as night without stars and the moon

Moon, for it did choose to hide behind clouds

Hide, as if being aghast and blind

Aghast, which one feels passing by

Field of death, bodies sleeping beneath ground

Ground, that echoes screams through graves

Graves, still carrying open wounds

Wounds, for what else

Could help one die yet live

A life narrated out of scars,

A life beyond flickering of stars."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 27/09/2015

At the Dawn!

"She collected sunrays at dawn

Dew drops upon rose petal

A few resting at thorns

Walking past woods she heard cuckoo sing

Song of love, coming alive

Heart whispered dreams

She keeps them safe

In her bosom

Dreams bloom even beneath nightmares

Standing by the sea watching it flow

Carrying few pebbles in her pocket

Stone skipping, she jumped off the cliff

Broken pieces of glass

She held a mirror in her hand

Scars complimented her face

She looked at the passing by moon

Fading through the dawn, yet

Promising a life of her own; she smiled."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 19/9/2015