Fidelis Ad Mortem.

I trace back myself to the bygone days
to friends, foes, strangers.
Walking back, i try to remember
whether it was worth it or not,
whether my stories would turn out
different than the others.
I was a king, god, fallen one, mortal
I now realize, I'm only human.
To remember is easy, to commemorate
is easier - to live with absence is herculean.

To have faith still or to be done with?

Were it was supposed to end like this
or with a different outcome,
that remains the question.
If not this, then what? Then how?
Why?

As August Ends.

As August comes to an end,
so does the penance
so does the peace and
so does the pain.
I have lived and died and lived
moment by moment, in sufferance
and in healing, in assumption
that I can crack no more,
in self-assured future, in distorted presents.

As August comes to an end
your words come closer to reality,
I saved them for later doses.
Our memories are on fire,
they burn in rage and broken possibilities,
and I keep choking on their ashes,
I keep hearing your last blames.
Everyone else is sleeping in dreams and
certain peace that I too knew once,
now my nights keep taking me back to
your last calls, peace to me is a longing.

As August comes to an end, sooner this too
will die out due to the lack of attention.
Or I  shall hope for tomorrow and
tomorrow to explode in a thousand words to choose.
As August comes to an end,
I believe so should you.

Reset

If i had a nickle
for every time i wanted
to hit that reset button and start over.
Take back the pain and save you the trouble, make things right,
for once, for twice, for a few hundred times.

To meet you again, like strangers,
you'll ask my name and I'll buy you
a cup of tea. We'll talk on endless notes.
We'll be friends of fabric and designs,
and smile and laugh and make faces.

I am still looking for that reset button,
I found it too, a couple of times,
i was so close to hitting it in hope,
and faith.
But I didn't, I can't, I won't.
I can't remember to let go again and again.

From the diary.

18th january, 2019.

With regular practice, pretence becomes an easy craft. Well, that goes for everything in this world without saying, the point is, pretention is a very handy tool for the tricky situations one finds oneself more than often and more than necessary.

After a point, pretention leaves a big room for improvement and sometimes healing too.

I have been pretending for a while but now I think I am fine. The only cost is that I am now more disconnected and distant than before, almost for a lot of people. I however cannot judge it's merits and demerits without being biased towards a favourable outcome and that is just wrong.

In a way, everything is!

Rishiraj. 

Marlboro Man

I wonder how many cigarettes will it take

to build a mound of ash,

big enough to fill the grave of multiple

corpses, it won't be easy. 

Everyone sees the packets everyday I buy,

a slender tube dangles from my blackened lips regardless of time,

the sides of my fingers are yellow

and yesterday I spat some blood. 

Everyone's a doctor now, everyone's playing 

Dr. Phil, I cannot make them understand

the unresolved points my life has seen

or for the fact that I'm not the one who dies

I haven't done that yet. 

So I steal the song from Fool's Garden,

"I wonder how I wonder why..."

making it a maxim I'd hum along,

maybe a little Phil Collins

if I am in the mood.

I drive in my matt blue car 

with a cigarette lit,

I kept the last one in the dashboard

along with her last one, with the lipstick mark which she left there before flying off

for a new life afterwards.

So I keep wondering, I wonder

how much cigarettes will I need,

before I finally make it all go

or before I finally make it.

Overt Thoughts.

So you say 

that there's still hope,

for me, for us, for you.

I can live with that.

I see the minutes trudge away, 

leaving marks and

scratches, redolent of histories 

and songs of us; the detriment

has a progression, only matched 

by my hubris of going on,

what else can I do?

I can live, as I have, and as I will,

with the relatable facts and venal

fictions, with dates I cannot forget

and words I don't want to remember,

as you say, there's still hope,

as you'd know my inane volition

has ever been a little bit confused; 

I don't know where to stop. 

Intent's tendencies are all about tomorrow

and for all we know, I still have remnants 

of you left, for my most own moments.

Because there's still hope,

not of you, not here, not mine, never anymore; but of me.

Acerbic afternoons and corroding 

evenings will be my routine

and I know things will fade, as I have

from you, but since I still can write

lambasting or loving in the livid moments,

I know, there's still hope. 

Rex

For a moment as it were,
I was a king.
Of rubbles and ruins,
of prosaic sepulchre
and of the warren lanes of
the same tenacious exaltations.
Yes, I was a king, of things and dreams,
of nightmares; but my robes were clean.

I lost my throne, my crown forfeited,
a long time ago my kingdom corroded.
As I walk the winding halls, clueless and empty I leave traces only so
I can go back.
I leave a trail of blood, my robe is dripping red everywhere I walk.

For a moment as it were,
I was a king, and I ruled.
No more, never again.
My castle fell and
my robes are not clean.