Death on Paper

The surreal words that never were
from eloquent ink that never was
were read by moving misty eyes,
those salty beads wetting skin & glass

Minced with spices of adjectives
soaked in gravy of passives & actives,
Garnished with metaphors of fragrances,
went unserved - those aromatic sentences

The dawn of reality torched the plot,
chagrin of dreams drenched the page
weight of promises broke the tip,
prowess & rage died with age

Angels that used to whisper in ears
Manticores roaring in sandy towns
Wizards that peeped in glowing goblets
marooned the mind, throwing curse & frowns

And as death of creator draws nearer
hovers the futility of that sinful hope
to might of reality, fantasies succumb
words hang dead-unread on destiny’s rope

~AbhishekM

The Gang of Enchanters

It’s 3:50 am, a cold November morning. Yet the well lit large room is already packed. On the colourful stage sits a Mr Greyhaired with checkered shirt and jaw-cart resembling early Neanderthals. The other old man sitting nearest to the stage must be in his late 70s. He is wearing a black fake fur ear cap above his fragile shoulders where a marigold garland hangs. The third contemporary, sandwiched between the stage and the side wall is older and thinner with a visible jaw-less jawline. He is wearing a Nehru cap above a white kurta. The remaining three comrades complete the bandwagon of enchanters. Around them is a room full of people: old, young, men, women, kids, eloquent, sluggish, mirthless and chirpy.

Notice the fake fur among marigold garland and moving chimtaa