Chapter 4

Move On

A week has gone by; I have learned to fly on,

The mark of the coffee cup on the table has yet to dry,

And I feel happy, that for this week I haven’t cried,

Good times started rolling, and it’s time to march on.

Past was past how surreal and bizarre it may appear,

Yet for the time I spent, those was the golden moments,

Frozen by the history of these so called mysteries,

I call it the hysteria of the your utopic delusions.

I am now entering the phase where I’d have to be left alone,

Alone and free from you, and all sorts of yours memories,

I’d like to erase all kind of your inconceivable memories,

Burned the cigarette just like those memories of yours.

And at the end, I realised, you were not the only one,

But still my heart weeps for you, for the so long journey,

The journey of that demystified long lost files,

Where I learnt to raise my toast and legalise those long lost files.

Chapter 3

Realization

Bring down the mountain of THE unrealistic dream

The sooner you realize the lesser you scream

Pipeline the burning enigmatic rage within you

Because you are left with nothing except those melting hours.

Past time routines won’t save you from the burdened activities

You have to find loopholes within those transparent fragilities.

Rise up and bring down the mole hill till you reach the end

And try to find the answers before you stop calling him a friend.

Barking dogs and wandering flees will count the freedom

And on that day you will mark an end to your ‘Boredom’.

Last verse, last lines and the beginning of the end

You try to disfigure the passion of those binding chimes.

Chapter 2 - Aftermath

Time to magnify my horizons, search for clues,

It’s now time I find right feet for those shoes,

Been lost for so long, that people call me sulky,

Move and shake on, stop making your heart bulky.

Yes, it hurts to revert back from those moments,

But now I have to realise they were futile ornaments,

Invested heavily in them, those turned out to be false,

I’ll probably wait for some one to come, certainly when the heaven calls.

Time for the windmills to churn the wheat again,

The sunflower to bend towards the sun again,

Let the dragonflies raze over the fields,

I’ll write these poems and they will be my shield.

Even if I stood a chance,

It was too late just to give a chance,

I’m now a free bird, from those overgrown,

Overgrown premature yet so soft memories of hers.

Dementia

Wrote a series of poems in forms of chapters titled Dementia.

Chapter 1

Over & Out

A thousand forces couldn’t break those chains
It could have been worse if I tried to refrain
One night, few seconds, few words
And it all came down crashing on me

My cards fell, and everything was lost,
It was just like the refrigerator had defrost,
The water left was too cold to touch over,
I was rattled by the events and their reasons.

Now that I know where I stand
I’ll always keep myself chained to the ground,
It will be over soon, I’ll have to refrain,
Find another reason and came out of the exile.

Won’t ever go back to the phase I was called,
I’ll keep my records in those long lost files,
And pray to heavens, thought of ‘IT’ will always make me smile
I vent out my anger & sorrows, through these poems, but I won’t ever cry.

Bleached Soul

Jump, hop, slip out from that narrow hole,
those never ending dried up basement vents,
cracks and vents blow the steam out of you,
the drugs help them to widen there horizons.

Lost control to the steering wheel,
eyes were red shot and blood gushed furiously,
the white powder, a gazeless stare, million thought,
endless instincts but the small brain.

Destination is far away, the route is wide,
fuel is full, the tyres are empty, no air,
shaken stirred took on the wheels with a flair,
With the bold step he took he felt a new divide.

High, from life, from the pages he left behind swirling,
embarking upon a new voyage, full of twisted empty barrels,
got many blind and countless stares down the road he took,
but with one mission in his mind all these surplus he clung on to the hook.

With the sun overhead and the screeching of those empty tyres,
made sure he never lost control of the handle,
his mojo was way above the level to wrangle,
his feet touched the ground and leveled the air above his head.

Black Magic

Frozen, fallen from that iceberg
he slipped into the cold blue river,
entering the deep abyss of that mystery,
was the never ending road that lead to the black glory.

He could hear the wolves howling out to the moon,
there weren't no witches around with their old brooms,
it was just the old man watching and sitting ,
with his eyes ever up rolled.

The match sticks were oil slicked,
their lustre was marked with the sparks of past,
and so were lost the silver lining moments,
filled with hollow dignity of that old man.

That old road he followed from a long time,
rusted and burned out that path led to nowhere,
several voices in his head lead him to the days,
days that were filled with the black magic of the woman.

Shifting, riveting and adjusting he mended his ways finally,
people called him a lunatic, but he only knew,
knew that this highway lead him to the antidote,
antidote, erased his longingness towards that magical blackness.............


"People say that love hurts...
love is just a delusional part of their character,
what hurts is their inability to love someone."
-Mohan(21/01/2011)

Marching Orders

Marching ants, vibrant sunflowers, flowing waves of birds,
everything was not so complex as a flock of herds,
life was never that easy as it is hasty,
the flow of events turned out to be nasty.

Spilled coffee on the teak,
life was flowing at its maximum peak,
movement of every single entity around me,
could feel the flow of every drop of blood gushing through thee.

Burst car tyres, bent rim, shattered glasses,
life flashed in front of me in few moments,
mind has lost its synchronisation with the brain,
things have slowly started flowing down the drain.

Teardrops, like the perennial raindrops was a sight,
life was turning , running like a turbulent flight,
dropped the coffee mug, shattered , scattered,
kept everything, every second of the spent life aside.

Marched forward away from the abnormalities of those formalities,
far away in those jungles high above without any tragedies,
the smile was back in those peaceful surroundings,
missing was NOW the hustle bustle tangled boundings.

End was near, not yet close but not so far either,
torn clothes were better than the ripped soul I had,
puzzle was complete so was the destiny's marching orders,
it could have been easy if those sane moments could've been pondered.

"Mortals block their emotions in such a way as,
Birds flock their feathers in a motion."
--Nishant (19/01/11)

Fools Gold

The inner feelings of a funny man,
running desires of virtual dream land
blindly following the sandstones of that desert
He could feel the orange sky overhead.

While they wondered he could imagine all the fabrics beneath him,
slowly and slowly running down that stream,
blood was so pure he could feel it reach the shore,
Gushing through the last hole of his body through a benign force.

thrived for that last breath of the air, 
freedom was all he could imagine in that air, 
all he could see in the sky was that image, 
blindly following the figure of the unfolded sinner.

Desperately seeking the advice of the deep beneath the unrest,
hide himself from the creepy crawlies in that shady forest.
Met a man who taught him to fight,
and the man joined the forces to ward off his plight

trained with the rest of them to fight,
came out with brave laurels and worthy sights,
got appointed as the leader of the troop,
with this early rise he marched forward for the route.

Shinning down that glory road of the jubilant movement,
we march towards that road to freedom,
follow me soldiers ill lead you to glory,
as the sun shone there was no one to stop them getting victory.

Wonders and surprises that carried there way,
the prizes and the loots they merried away,
were not enough for the sole souls of the dead bearers,
there wasnt a single one who felt his soul lighter,

The captain asked his men is anything left,
they were all so greedy that wanted one more theft,
the tavern they looted was nothing mere than a rotten ,
there find was just some books and leaves which carried a curse.

He lost men for every road they travelled,
it was the work of the curse that made every stone a gravel,
carried the dead soul on his burden,
without food and water every step seemed a hurdle.

Reached the end of the route and found that old man with his flute,
Said the old man with utmost wisdom,
cut loose the greed and the curse would be freed,
blinded by the greedy motivation, he found it a hard inspiration.

With the blow of the air in the flute,
the magical old man, brought back the miserable past of the destitute brute,
realised the effect of the events , the loner , the wanderer,
gave back the loot and set himself free from the greedy truth.

The Fragile Cocoon

To be born free or dead alive,

the uncanny mortal won't be free,

from those unwanted parodies,

time won't freeze neither his formalities.

Unrest his feet touch the ground every time he is in the air,

blindly following the instincts of his basic needs,

he develops an unwanted mystical flair,

covering them under his rusted deeds on which he feeds his greed.

Passion driven his desires uncover his calls for success,

throughout the way wanting unlimited access,

access to things he wants to lay his hands on,

were frozen beyond his high rise emotions.

The words were written as deep on the stone,

he was not the king sitting on the throne,

the sooner he could realize the better he could digest the fact,

he was just another of the god's made draft.

Death is not the end of the journey,

neither the life is the complete road,

there is a long highway one has to board,

death is just a tunnel between the life and the highway.

"Paradise built upon the fiery eyes wide dreams,

tend to end numerously in shouts and screams."

---Nishant (18/01/11)

Utopic Illusions of a Baby

Rain drops scatter my imaginations around the blades of the windmill,

They slowly churn away the wind as they sway away under their flawless motion,

The drops trickle down the blades as a magical potion,

These small prisms spread themselves throughout the greens as a free will.

Blends under the shadow of the trees,

Those finest dried leaves those are free,

Crushed under the finest whispers of laughter,

They find themselves deep beneath the graves of thee dead.

Undone by his deeds, found a way to freedom,

Broke those chains to move him away from the boredom,

Wandered to new horizons in search for new sensations

He had a motive to fulfill his life's frustrations

Sleep deprived, rumbling, rustling walking alone in the streets,

Was a man, with no desire, desire for success,

Under the ever moving sky was his never moving head down,

Just to find those crushed leaves bringing them back to the ground.

Anonymously carried himself through the hustle of the towns

Realized beneath the shade of the happiness there were many convincing frowns

Simplified his emotions to meet the needs of the protest,

Walking down those materialistic streets was just like a test

Surreal yet it may seem, deemed as crazy by the rest,

His demeanor was as hard as a rock,

For the miles forged under his feet he had to bear many shocks

Closure, without the joy or pain, he painted his road to his identity

The final destiny, the final moment, magical

Yet it may seem, was his final frontier, yet so simple

Utopia, his elixir of life, which he kept searching for,

Happiness and sorrow kept burdening him all the way along,

Yet he found a way to move on and on and on.......