I fathom fiercely
what fruits
have the denial borne.
I sink in solitude
bewildered by truths
of the scorns.
I silence my pangs
with cataracts
of existential dilemmas.
Wistful as it is,
my desperate acts
are fleeting drips of melting soul, dying
a million times
in the parting.
My heart rings like-
Like the empty vessel of life
that marks
the solemn starting
of an armed battle
betwixt the two entities.

Compadre!
I am the final dream
of a decaying man,
the wilted decadent.

A spartan,
would favor stroke
the mild blue sky
with drips of crimson.
But still, late in the darkness,
he would glare at the stars
and feel something amiss.

A Harappan
would rather favor lasting peace
Bloodshed? Avoid!
But over that
pertaining bliss,
her spirit would feel the torments
Of a throbbing void,
living.

A capitalist
would favor the slimy clink
of yellow metal,
or the demonic bewitchment
of diamonds
and sapphires
over innocent screams
of hundreds and thousands
that are laid to pyres
of his greed.
But on his final adieu,
in his ultimate dream
as a fading man,
darkness will drizzle
over every corner,
Silence will gulp his meaning,
and unfettered longing for love
and redemption
from all that he caused.
He sheds
a catastrophic culmination
of his life
in tears.

What good is happiness
when ‘tis a shallow pause
on the curtainfall of regret?

A communist
would sympathize equality
in the deepest trenches
of humanity
in terms of power and pelf
in exchange for
the degrading quality
of her true self.
What would be
left of the minuscule
shard of mankind
if the beating heart is not owned
by individual will?
Let me remind,
we are three-quarters of what we feel.

A fascist
would pride bigotry
above all.
History has proven,
a leaf that quarrels a tree
ultimately falls.

A realist
would ponder only
about what materializes
in front of her barren eyes
of perception.
She would forget to hold hope,
forget to dream.
Speak out solemnly
until she realizes
that what she believed
was a boulder
of lies.
What remains
are the emotions soldered
in the eyes.

A dreamer
would delve too deep
in the eight corners
of his realm of vain.
What would he gain,
but utter disdain
from reality?
Every morn, every night,
in bright darkness
and pitch-black light,
he will keep on treading,
climbing,
the hills of his realm
until one day
he will summit the peak,
resolve too weak,
reality too bleak,
he will step off that cliff
Perhaps too steep
To emerge alive again.

Life is a flicker
of the eye.
Perhaps, sicker
than the vilest of lies.
What passes by
could emerge again,
in other symphonies lain
by the orchestrator.
We believe in
what we choose to believe in.
We are what we make of ourselves.
Our over-thoughts are a cluster
of feelings, we could not muster
into expression.
Realize, do not regret,
Let the memories swarm in,
Do not forget
all of life’s offering
In shapes of happiness and suffering.
From every joy and every scorn,
From every moment, let us learn
The darkest of nights
brings out the brightest of dawn.
Let's swing in and out
of the stages of our life.
And fade away, indestructible.