Wanderings…!

“As if an abyss without darkness

You could see yourself falling, and falling

Down and deeper

As if across the length of a sea

You scream

To be an echo

While your voice

Float across horizon

As if clouds without rain

Wandering as if breeze

Carrying no poetry across mountains

Breeze of winter

Harsh and cold

As if life itself

For to be a poetry without words

And a night without darkness

What pity, it must be

To be left on one’s own

While listening to tick tock of the clock

As it dictates of the rulebook

While the world stifles to

Stand in attention

One must not miss

Yet, he felt left alone

As if a shot missed

While shooting to kill

He must be charged with felony

A crime of severe consequence

To devoid the world, himself

Of his self

How could he, how could he?

He wondered

Where was it leading to?

Run, run away

As strange as it felt

He flew away

As if for ever

But to where

As if flying over the sea

To no end, Alas!

Only if he knew what this ever meant

To be a sailor without ship

To be a poetry without words

To be an I without self

To be a you without I

Standing beneath

Shadow of himself

A banyan tree

Yet naked branches

Who resides among?

Who rests along?

A few mellow cries

A few shallow dreams

Or may be

Just a few hollow nightmares

He dreaded

Tagging along

Who cares anyway?

For life moves on

With you

Without you

As always,

Wake up

Sleep

Swim along

Buried beneath

while

Someone will place a bouquet

And a few words

For you,

Words

For who else

Could define

A life lived short

A death half lived

A drop of tear

Unsaid, unheard

Wiped away

Off the face

Just like that...”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 06/03/2016

Scribbling

Scribbling:
"And the rain came by
As if a long lost romance
To pour itself all through the night
And as it drenched him, drowned him
As if in a dream, for who else could quench
A thirst he treasured..."

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Moments when your own shadows starts to pull you down beneath your feet, your ideas drag you behind your back, your own self trolls you for attempting a rescue, for where could you run after all. He remembered himself imagining being in a dark lane, dark as if even to imagine a self seemed like an illusion, no headway, a complete shallow ground full of thoughts springing every second in that unstable mind of his; where could he run to, to hide to, he was being exposed and he had no chance against those well-convinced thoughts to counter and keep himself standing. What could be more tragic than to see you being impounded with ideas you believed defined yourself. Apparently they did not define him but asked questions to him of his being, but only if he knew. His own self felt like an enigma to him, more he understood more it asked him to understand and the abyss of exploration continued. The more he tried, the more he felt non-existent, for even ideas need a firm ground to be seeded upon, alas! He felt too weak to be held responsible, as much that even his shadow thought of abandoning him…”

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling
Tragedy of wanderer:
"Time did heal my wounds
And stitched my scars
Made a moon out of million stars
But only if time knew
It was none other than scars
Who kept me alive
As stars does to the sky
When night is alone and dark
For while the moon tempts and glows
Stars turn into black holes
Where nothing exists but a darkness exquisite
And now I am no more than
A dead body, wrapped in a white coffin
Without any sign of life
Pretending to rest in peace, alas!