Saturated Reverberations of Ageing

Thought writing must save me from this strange abyss. But, my fingers tremble and eyes sore, as I type and type more. I thought, complex words and bifurcation of sentiments is what makes you relevant and stand out. Just made myself aware, I am writing after 10 years. Now, I am short of words to elaborate the things I dealt, felt, seen and things I asked myself to un-see. Should I write or should I let the time sway and emotions just tread upon my mind in stealth.

I have grown to be more upfront now. Blunt words, piercing emotions and visibility, pale and teary. Is it depth or exhaustion, I have yet to decide. Have you ever been in this state? If you did, you know exactly what I am at. But then I know, its a journey, there will be ups and downs and so on and forth. Here in my head, its something else...I see the Horizon. It is flat and almost endless. "Almost" because I give up too early and hunt for the edge. But nothing moves my core, sometimes its just an elusive fuck-up or sometimes its a long wait for that fuck-up to pop. Perhaps, there is no way in or out but, mere now it is. Quite similar to a high, you are dying to get out of but you keep diving...

When you grow older, you learn to forsake your innocence in exchange for sense. Sense that would judge your vehemence of emotional approach towards life.  While it is known sense to abstain from such. But there is a risk you may lose relevance either to yourself or to your family and friends. Perhaps you will know, each day you exist only because your body chose to wake up today to see tomorrow. And that very fact is as relieving as is very haunting.

Relationships will vaporize, as never existed, leaving the dead marks on surface. Nor will the ones you shared a den with, nor the ones you newly acquainted with. No thread that strong that holds up too long. And every time you will either be displaced or replaced. Your dispensability will depend on absolutely nothing. So, I suggest slowing your appetite for acceptance. Because everything you do, will eventually fuck-up and the cycle wont just stop. Yes...that sounded boring and equally depressing. But it is the conviction of the mundane which withstands the storm of change.

Now it is and only there is.

Souvenirs

Arrested romance,

Love at a glance,

Now, a lost dream,

But precise and trim.

Could i imagine,

Of being soul-less skin?

Smiling with the askance;

And that makes sense.

Cause you see,

Humans do flee,

Of emotional drives

Or nature's strives.

But alike evidence,

As a murder essence

Fragments of memories,

Imprisoned in glories,

Of physical form.

Left Behind-norm.

A novel obsession,

Surrounds the posession.

A secret collection,

I guard with affection.

Unique domains,

Of exotic remains.

Each piece of physical matter,

Has certain tale to utter.

A boarding coupon,

When tears fell in turn.

A croissant wrap,

Left, but I did tap.

A poetry dismissed.

Then, mistakenly, now kissed.

An audio capture.

To travel past from future.

Every sight i turn to,

I relive a moment or two.

Can a bought object,

Bestow me this effect?

Neither can people,

Whose step tremble.

Rights on them,voided.

But not on objects,invaded.

I might sound materialist.

Factually, Enlightened Realist!

Although, are harmless,

May turn, elements of distress.

As the verve of fears,

Of losing, reincarnates in Souvenirs.

Love?

Makes the nourished,

Feel deprived, poor.

If not scarce,

Creates indispensibles,

Of those not meant.

Discarding onus,

The independence,

Finally the conscience.

For the amateur,

Endeavor to insanity.

For the omniscient,

A new dimension.

Untill undone lost,

World being achieved.

Evoking to sacrifice,

Wealth, Time, others,

And at worst,

The spared Life;

As he is the world.

And when lost,

Mayday at daylight;

Increased desperation,

Seeking mortality,

Solace or vengeance.

Why! i ask,

Is "love" nothing,

But mere tough?

Categorised under care,

Sympathy,pain and lust?

Or a chronic disease,

Disambiguated, "Obsession"?

Scars

Sometimes I cross,

From edge to centre;

And center defies;

And entire world sinks.

But a ''mark'' remains.

Pain instigates it.

And cries, pacify.

I deny to leave,

Till it stays,

On the flesh.

And I can see

So can you,

Everyday,and vex;

Of the tales it depict.

And one coming day,

Dissolve or fade.

But the inscription,

Above and within

On the mesh,

No eyes reach.

But spouting blood,

Every second kills.

No mercy I give.

No sympathy I let.

However I deprive,

The story, I love;

Of souvenirs and memoirs,

And the ''scars'' prevail.

Untitled

Isnt a pleasure or pain,

But sincerely, Insane.

One of the determined birds,

Singing euphony to the nerds.

Tamed to be flightless;

Unnamed for the mess.

Eyes bestowed to the lens,

In sudden blast of silence.

Restrained laughters' play,

Deception on its way.

Be in joys or woes,

Seem one legged flamingoes.

Two say, "Rolling, Action.."

Were invoked every fraction.

Gentle love and grace,

Sway with gliding pace.

Work turned obsession,

To build a posession.

It isnt mere a haven,

Sets of uncertainties, woven.

Aloof I was still,

Rebuked I was fill.

But today, the ben speaks,

Of the peace it seeks.

Voyage of Transluscence,

Destined to pure essence,

Of compassion,engage.

Aside the hypocritic rage.

But alas!We made her alive,

From folds where minds dive.

Icons

The moving shell,

Holding men at large scale,

Doesn’t intend to lope,

Through windows,i hope.

And i see Homo sapiens,

With vague opinions.

Gliding flags of pride,

On their lame ride.

And what captivate,

Are the icons of fate.

Constitute another domain.

Am i blind in vain?

For i view mere object,

And objective i reject.

Begin with nature's gift;

The flower on watery rift.

The revolving machine;

On the room welkin.

An open palm;

Helping rebel,calm.

A ferocious animal head;

Always feeling red.

A static clock;

Soundless, tic-toc!

A light emitting instrument;

On the struggling segment.

The steam engine vehicle;

Pressed between colours,fickle!

A fluid filled seed;

For visual not feed.

A four-legged silent giant!

From north extravagant!

Odd!  see change,

Comb for hair range!

Here, one goes for women!

The sewing machine omen.

The more i view,

My acknowledgement due.

More than being political,

Creative minds, philosophical.

And who says, i bore?

Instead, i m enjoying on fore.

Sometimes amazed,vexed.

Tang of philosophy,annexed.

As the swaying symbol,

Coming day will bless us all.

Will the trend of material,

Replace logic and real?

Then, i wish to icon, 'Human Brain'

And using it,being an aim.

Conquest

So let it burn;

as every flame,

would spell a word,

and myriad to blame.

but will distort own.

before repressed agony,

turns to evil rage,

and further vengeance;

let into "battle of savage."

where man turns ogre,

but brings out a cause.

tell how centered satans,

and make them pause.

this isnt aggression,

but more definetly,

consequence of suppression.

his subtle dejection couldnt,

decipher what we lost.

which he thought bed,

tossed out to a field of war,

giving meaning to words said.

this isnt mere chessboard,

but ultimate clash,

of chronic thoughts;

alike ignition from a flash.

partnership may shear apart,

but not the eloquent goal.

cause, this is conquest!

not mere love or hatred,

but for conscience and humane;

which isnt autocratic or made;

but ultimately prevails...

so let it burn,

till death fails.