A COMPLAINT

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The only complaint I have

Is against myself.

There is no point complaining

To anyone if they can’t fix it.

No point in wasting words

That bounce off the walls

And back at your ears,

In an empty chamber

That has bars for windows.

There is no one who can

Fix my longstanding complaint,

Except One.

And He doesn’t seem much concerned

About it.

Maybe, He has too much

On His mind.

So, he chooses neither to reject it

Nor to accept it

And therefore, fix it.

He leaves me in a limbo of a life,

Quite conveniently for Him.

If it can be called a life;

Neither swimming nor drowning,

Neither burning nor extinguished,

Neither resplendent green nor bone parched dry,

Neither shining at noon, nor setting at dusk,

Just gray and ashen and alone,

Painfully alone.

FORGIVE ME FOR NOT SHARING YOUR ENTHUSIASM.

Oldie but goldie, Poetry

I have never been

This alone in my life!

So forgive me

For not sharing your enthusiasm

When you discuss that clear blue

Sky up above,

Or the roses in spring,

Or the birds that sing

In the cage in your house,

Because I am thinking about

The dark corner of my cell,

Hiding those leggy spiders.

Forgive me for

Not sharing your enthusiasm

Because I can’t smile like

The lovers sharing lovely

Chit-chat on their cell-phones,

Staring at each other

Across the expanse of social

Boundaries and norms, yet

One in harmonious joy.

I have bars in my windows,

Chains around my feet,

Of words, Not mine!

Of thoughts, Not mine!

Of norms, Not mine!

Of desire, Not mine!

Of will, Not mine!

Of hope, Cursed Hope!

Murderous Hope, Not mine!

So forgive me for

Not sharing your enthusiasm.

I have a life, you may not

Care to share.

 

 

 

The Fool.

Oldie but goldie, Poetry

A man of Words,

A man of Lost Dreams,

A man chasing an Illusion,

A man Lost in Delusion.

A man Honest with

His own self Only.

A man Passionate to the World,

But Lonely.

A man in Love with

Images in Thin Air.

A man of Thoughts

Which Leave him in Despair.

A man of Hope,

A man of joy,

A man of Passion,

A man of Imagination,

A man of Vision,

A man of Immortal Vision

Which leads Humanity

Into War…

Into Peace…

Into Elation…

Or Unbridled Jubilation…

At his Grave Tomb

When his Body Exists no more,

When his Skin and Bone

Are as Fine As Dust,

Ground by the Weight of the Sins

Committed in the Name

Of his Vision…

His Dream…

His Philosophy…

His Immortal Name.

He is the Hero to Generations,

To Saints,

To more Heroes,

And yet, more.

Humanity is in Debt

To his Immortal Genius,

To his Blind Devotion,

When his Flesh and Hair

Have been Consumed by the Worms

Of Human Ambition,

While his Soulless Body

Was weighted by pounds of Earth

Which Embraced him,

As it Hid all…

The Sinners…

The Saints…

The Brave…

The Prudent…

The Secretive…

The Seditious…

The Rapacious…

The Deceived…

The Wise…

The Sublime…

The Human…

The Divine…

The Mad.

 

As Humanity Reveled,

He Starved.

As She Scorned him,

He praised Her Beauty.

As She Shunned him,

He remained Faithful.

As She bestowed Her Blessings

Upon the Unworthy,

He praised Her Justice.

As She slowly Devoured him,

He sang hymns to Her Immortality.

As he lay drawing his Last

Gasps of Air, Scented by Her Fragrance,

He professed his Love for Her.

She reviled him as a Heretic…

A Madman…

A Drunkard…

A Fool.

 

Then, he was no more

For her to Revile…

To Mock…

To Hound…

To Torment…

To Betray…

To Deceive…

To Damn to a Purgatory

Of wretched Human Existence.

She did not desist

In Her Hatred for him.

His Body is Dust

Mingled with the Dust

Of other Such Men

Mingled with the Dust

Of yet more Dust

Mingled with Dust.

Only Dust

To be Trampled

Under Her feet

Which regard none.

Yet, in his Scattered State,

His State of Non-existence,

He fueled Passions.

He Inspired Revolutions.

He Spurred Ambitions.

He served his Mistress.

He served Her Loyally,

Even in Death.

He heeds his Beloved

Even when he is no more.

His Immortal Love

For Her Lives on.

As She acknowledges

His Devotion to Her,

He is no more

To show his Gratitude

For Her Generosity,

To Sing hymns

To Her Immortal Beauty,

To be at Her Beck and Call,

To Cloak Her flaws

In Silken Threads of Words,

To be a Slave to Love…

She acknowledges

His Devotion, Only.

Not his Adoration for her…

Not his Immensely Blind

Faith in Her…

Not in his Humanity.

For Her, he was

Just Another suitor

Vying for Her Hand.

Another Villain

Aiming to make a Trophy,

For his mantle, out of Her.

Another Jester to amuse.

Another Slave to Satiate

Her fickle moods.

He was all the said,

Yet, much more.

 

He was a Fool.

A man of Words,

A man of Lost Dreams,

A man chasing Illusions,

A man Lost in Delusion.

A man honest with

His own Self only.

A man Passionate to the World,

But Lonely.

A man in Love with

Images in Thin Air.

A man of Thoughts,

Which Leave him in Despair.

A man of Hope,

A man of Joy,

A man of Passion,

A man of Vision.

A man of Immortal Vision

Of being Loved by Her…

His beloved Humanity.

A Fool.

 

 

A HOMAGE.

Oldie but goldie, Poetry

A mirage

She sits before me,

Mine to see,

Not to touch,

But to dream and

Walk away.

Icarus plunged

To the sea,

Famished by

Her ardour

Fodder for the sea

Of Darkness of rejection;

Never beating the Mirage,

Dancing on the burning

Sands of time,

Pulling my strings

With delicate hands

Gently,

Onto the high rope.

Desire

For a memory

Keeps me crawling

And searching for

A tangible delusion

To mock an illusion.

SIACHIN: A MOUNTAIN ROSE.

History, Oldie but goldie, Poetry, Politics, War

Into the fray they march,

Onto the icy fields

To make war for their Creator,

And the might He wields.

 

A Mountain Rose, they fight for,

A Mountain Rose, their life,

Against a perfidious foe and cold

To reclaim their fief.

 

Miles to defend, miles to roam

To bear the burden of Death.

Entrenched on the slopes of icy extinction,

Chill pervades each breath.

 

Yet, Will vanquishes adversity,

And hope springs anew,

When fervour goes beyond verbosity,

Favouring the Brave few.

 

Into the arms of Fate, they march

With only Allah and perseverance,

Only to destroy a heathen hope

Of obliteration and abject adherence.

 

Ice pink with what was crimson,

Immolation for a Mountain Rose.

Martyrdom is a Heavenly reason

On the white petals of the Mountain Rose.

 

THEY DEAL ME CARDS NOT ALWAYS FROM THE TOP OF THE DECK.

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They deal me cards

Not always from the

Top of the deck.

Sometimes, they pull one

From the bottom

And sometimes, from the middle.

They think they’re fast

And that they can get away.

When I ask them,

They conveniently deny it,

Telling me not to argue

Over the hand I am dealt,

And the quality of the Dealer.

And then I ask them for

Another hand.

They shuffle the deck,

Fast and hard,

To cheat my eyes

The skilful hands of

The Dealer.

STRANGERS

History, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

Strangers

Every time we meet

Starting all over

The mind games,

The empty pauses,

The meaningless words,

The searching glances,

For someone we knew

Long ago in our pulses

And our heaving breaths

That frosted over cold glass

When pulses beat in tandem,

Breaths mingled,

& we breathed

Each other’s sighs

And we stifled

Each other’s moans.

We walked away

From it

And ourselves

To be not one.