Tag Archives: charade

The one that got away

26 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in attempted muse, bark!

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People say that it will get better. People say that things will change. They promise a lot. They paint a rosy picture in your head.

They lie.

You can do it, you can have the empire, without realizing that it is of dirt. You can play with it for a while, make a palace out of sand. And when rain comes, watch it crumble, try to save it knowing that there is nothing you can do.

You can also remember all the moments you were a split second late, the decisions you took too long to take, the memories you couldn’t make. Nothing blows as a candle in the wind. Nothing stays like an amorphous anathema. When your victories are your own, why does it become so hard to accept defeat as your own wayward child- which you nurtured but somewhere, something went wrong?

What is it that makes you afraid? What is it that you’re haunted of? Are you so afraid of rejection that you have accepted it, getting along with your life like it matters not? For how long do you think that you can carry on this charade?

You cannot ever find the time to do all the nothing that you want. Go watch a movie, go listen to a song, sing a melody, try to be happy. Try to discover the heart that seems lost. Indulge it, again. Be prepared to get it broken. If it does, and in all probability, it will, start afresh.
Fall in love. Anything will do. As long as it serves an inspiration to the fear that it will go away, keeping you on your toes, alert, for the storms to come.

It will get better. Things, they will change. I promise you. Do cry, but when the tears dry, come to your senses, over the one that got away.

Immortals (Army of the living dead)

05 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by in jinxed rhymes

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Army of the living dead

Between the adored and the adorer falls the shadow,
Roar sometimes, the children of the gallows,
They smite and they cry, in tatters the spirit inside,
Watching silently as time flies by.

Memory fails in the wake of being alive,
Giddily they forget, tenderly try remember what’s benign.
Thor the brave hammers down at them,
Medusa the great walks to give them the eye.

In vantage of the dark, the vintage occupy,
What’s not theirs to own, as the gist defines.
The grit, ever present, stands inclined for malevolence,
Leave at their wake, gnats and flies to feast at the fallen.

The spittoon carries venom, debilitates the prey,
Wrought as they come, come what may.
The need for rectitude is long lost,
Dilapidated the skin lags, bones as their hangers.

Opposition is anything but a charade,
Beating them would take an altogether different masquerade.
Till then, they lay waiting in the dark,
To live, to pain, to die, long for a feel at last.