Reason

"All our screams of suffering

And cries out of pain

As if the uncertainty over self has

Consumed us inside out

Soon turns into a noise, unbearable

As if thrown into a mute and deaf crowd

Deprived off our solitude

Made to laugh off our tears

Which threatens to wash away

Our very existence

We crave for a little of silence

No matter how chaotic

For it feels home to be buried

Beneath our vulnerable longing for gloom

A castle made of our fallen pieces

a grave where we are born and again

For where else we could soothe

The scars we tend so savagely, Alas!"

Praveen Parasar

22/04/2017

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Once he knew he belonged to nowhere, he was home, in his own abyss, where his narcissistic highs were enough to carry him through the days, unseen, and drunk upon his solitude he chose to gamble with the night. He was a declared outcast, thrown out of his castle of doom. He didn’t disappoint himself with calamity, for losing was his genre and he handled it with ease, it only brought him toasts from shadows he had kept in the dark corners of his skin. While people thought to shame him for the naïve insistence, he was convinced tragedy was not being at the wrong end, for odds are often in favor of that. It was in being at the right end and yet finding others calling their bluff. He never desired to win, for he found a distinct ecstasy in being the villain, one who is destined to lose or so people thought. He felt amused at the thought. He decided to sleep with the tragedy and make it appear like a virgin maiden.”

Persuasion…!

“You must not carry suffering

as the night carries darkness

and the day – lights,

for both are often overwhelmed of their companions

anxious, as if they would belie themselves

you should instead carry it

like a broken mirror carries its reflections

as if enslaved, obsessed, possessed

for it can never stop imaging

despite being wrecked and again

only to tear itself apart upon being seen

as if exposed, mocked, tormented

and yet knowing there is no escape

you must collect pieces of self

trampled down, scattered around

in the ruins of solitude…”

Scribbling:

“Taste of

Saliva, sweat, blood

Spell of

Chaos, obsession, madness

Thrill of

Death, destruction, darkness

And

Mundane as this life appears

while

Resentment, rage, reason

Feasts

upon corpses…”

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of wanderer:

“Love always found solace in the bosom of death, but he insisted for it to be exhibited with life for once but only to make a mockery of its lonesome figure amidst myriad of shadows passing by who ridiculed and accused him of treachery, while he stood there in chaotic silence unable to fathom his own tirades of questions. He had just witnessed a humiliating showdown with hate that he lost and how, oh! Only if he could realize there always lurked animals hidden in bright light of days preying upon such vulnerable ones, who find themselves broken and fallen at the end of such failed exhibition upon so called animated life. He felt to drown himself in a glass of oblivion with a faint hope that probably the night would let him hold her once more forgiving his such imprudence towards darkness. Darkness for it always gave him a secret taste of death and he scribbled his musings off its visage. Alas!

Scribbling:

“Pain, a sedative so fine
Offers glimpses of death sublime…”

Worthless-man!

"Being a worthless man

Squandering about

Holding onto tainted shadows

Carrying nothing but hollow promises

Banished off the holy land of hope

He wandered along the muddy ridge of indifferences

Picking pieces of himself broken, lost along the way

Some that he had attempted to throw upon clouds

Only to find him at receiving end, as if spitted upon

Well, well, what else to expect

Being a worthless man

Oh dear, such is the tale of

Being a worthless man

Scheming about

Hiding beneath blots of suspicion

Bound to be caught red-handed and again

Only to be ousted off the boundaries of solicitude

And there, now

Left alone, drunk upon solitude

He wonders

Whether even the night hates him yet

Whether even darkness would refuse

To let him come, any closer

Whether even death would offer him any solace

Being a worthless man…”

Praveen Parasar

04/03/2017