through the prism
of sad reality
an illusory delight
glows in the company
of the bygone

every joy
and every hope
buried under the
weight of the wait

each day a new story
each day a bridge to mend
each day the same bridge falls
each day the same voice calls
each day it asks for an end
each day the same bridge to mend

normalcy is a conspiracy
like in each symbolic beginning
lies a perpetual end
both seen yet unseen
relentless yet ignored
meaningless yet sought

i may not be a sinner
but i am no saint
if fulfillment had a color
i'd have loved to paint
but color, paper and strokes
is that all it takes for fulfillment
then why do I find myself again

seeking another's testament

futility always find a home
but dreams
in search of a heart, they roam
only to be found
like old books, left behind
in  futility's rush, it had a home to find

the owner of my waking thought

is so deeply sought 

so deeply sought

some years

cannot be reduced to words

like the sun

they explode into

our realm of existence 

and become all we ever lived

life is a perpetual morning after
the shine in the eyes is gone
the warmth in the hands is missing
and the heady smell of the midnight air is distant

an easy word is estranged
three mere vowels
with consonants neatly arranged

drops of you
like drops of rain
fall unto me
and take away the pain

when did the water

turn this cold

that no inspiration existed

in your heart of gold

that no light brought day

to this endless night

that our daring dreams

have now lost sight

between all the light
and all the sound
something has just
burnt down to the ground
but how could you see
in so much light
how could you hear
the time was never right

Ultimately, no if, why and when really matters. Ifs don't happen, whys don't really have a reason and when is just a sad marker of the time when things were better. What does matter is who you are, what inspires you, where you're seeing yourself go, and sometimes, who really is listening to you.  

a dirge
always at play
as i dream away my day
a dirge, for the night
that is here to forever stay

if not strong
then one must be weak
because surely, nobody
can lie in between
these two words
created
just created
to glance over
the vitality of the small things
that can have their own god
but still receive no humanly affection
or even a pitiful bit of interest

there sits someone so quietly

deep inside my mind

yet to raise his dark heavy head

but i know his eyes are really kind

he feels so right and homely

made of good memories that we mined

that i'm sure he couldn't be untrue

and i know his eyes are really kind

we wait so willingly for the day 

when i believe that i will find

that he would rise to show me that

his eyes are really that kind

but where lies the day i ask him

when we leave the past behind

and something in him tells me

that he hardly seems inclined

time stops one day so suddenly

as though seeking to leave me in a bind

and i realize as i gaze up at him

that his eyes were never really kind

you died
long before i could save you
in many ways
and long before my days

that color of delight

a moon, even on a moonless night

was that even a color

in her cream diary

i find a yellowed wedding card

with decades of age

and yet, she found it hard to discard           

an indistinct one it was

a few lines in black and red

a sheet of paper, a judgment

tied in auspicious yellow thread

the card once read over and over

slowly moved to its restful place

few months and it was forgotten

in favor of a life waiting for embrace

but life, it never tried to charm her

instead it gave her reasons and grace

and she rose like single green sapling

with wild weeds and creepers to race

with little rain, little sunshine

and still a long way to go

she wilts sometimes and she whispers

that there is nothing for her to show

someone tells her that a slight shore

will soon guard her from waters rough

and hopes that she will someday see

that she has always been a reason enough