As I Die...

In flames I lie, resting staring at sky
while around me, my kin squint & cry
the harbour away confers light and sun
but skin of my eyes is already burnt

These tears around, these sighs profound
as my wooden pyre nears the ground
These sorrows ripple waves of moans
as fire and oil melt my bones

These wooden logs might deceive my age
my people believe, I was young for this stage
As these unfulfilled pledges yell
my roasted spine burns to dust & fell

My family & my love have emotions arose
as my thighs dissolve and logs depose
A son, a brother, a lover burns
along, the pyre of hope succumbs

And finally my head bursts open
seeing sockets of my eye, others would have frozen
but Sun is off harbour and no one’s present
and I burn, to dust of my reminiscent

~AbhishekM

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

The right time

Beep.Beep.Beep. The low key sound seemed to hammer in my medulla. Because that was the only sound I could hear, or the most crucial one, I didn’t know then. Having stood it for what seemed eternity, my mind finally came back to life and I tried feeling my body of which I knew nothing since I don’t know when. Not much later I felt, like I felt never before, the power and credibility of the Hindu concept of Inner eye. Even with my carnal eyesight failed (bandaged or banned, I couldn’t realise), I could create animations to be seen & felt by my anima. As I patrolled my body, I found that my skin was rough, worn out, anointed, draped, sewed and even open at various points. It was impossible - and later I realised - unimportant to try finding out what happened. So I moved inwards...

Another life ... another waste

As Chagrin paves way & fancies don’t weigh
your wings of ice melt when burning sun is felt
when surreal succumbs and real triumphs
the wound deepens, the belief steepens

Visions are miraculous, reality ferocious
your world is a mime, a dozen a dime
absent is withal and obligations fatal
the energy subsides, the fate decides

As betrothal shapes & melancholy craves
your persona begets as anima regrets
When wings are severed, limbs butchered
the interior drools, the exterior rules

Then epilogue nears, an ode to fears
Your carnal erodes and platonic reloads
the frame collapses, the gravestone relaxes
you visit often, but see yourself forgotten ...

~AbhishekM