Free Will or Fate?

Sitting, reading those old desolated memories,

Different flowers, feathers, and scents emanating,

Readily nestling around the dichotomy of time,

Perusing, reflecting, through each fabric of mine,

“Are we fruition of our conscient intentions,

Or are we just some dancing marionettes?”

Albeit sitting still, the mind ran amok,

Dawning the memories, the future dusked upon,

Some unfinished memories, fallen like these petals,

Some beautiful possibilities, waiting for me to nestle,

Encompassing my choices, sitting at the confluence of time,

Perusing, reflecting, through each fabric of mine.

Borrowed Time

 Sitting in the middle of that bench atop his meager island,

Watching the tranquil waters, gazing deeper than the vision could pierce,

His quiescent eyes finding meaning, or someone, or something,

But he was all alone, alone on his island of solitude, waiting,

Immovable air, and numb water stood there swathing his silence,

Silent enough to hear his own memories, to hear his palsied heart.

Afraid of his own shadows, he counted his memories,

As yet, his embers flickered, his disquiet soul withered,

Motionless, colorless, he waited for his decree to be told,

Watching a rowboat enraging, he opened his mouth, whispered,

Insatiate figures hurdling, reaching out to grasp his embrace,

For his wait was over, his borrowed time had come to an end.

The Orchestrated Arbor

 Ensconced under the arbor, musing on to the starry night,

He followed the little cracks on the discoloring pedestals,

Soft knocks by falling snow, blurred the proud rose,

Nature actualizing a home on to this garden, on to this arbor,

Vines crippling back, fireflies veiling inside the cracks,

He held his gaze on to the northern star, on to the maturing dark.

An epiphany nestling inside the falling dream, falling shadow,

Embracing the besmirching rose, it surged above the falling snow,

Imperfectly perfecting this newly made home, he smiled,

Upon accepting, he saw the transition in this failing greyscale,

Until it disappeared, he held on to his arbor, his home, his catacomb,

He held his gaze on to the northern star, on to the maturing dark.

Vindictive Marionette

Vindictive renegade serenading among the fireflies,
Marching through empty roads, disquiet emanating riots,
Such eerie harmonies lying next to the wind,
Where the fire burns with sweet arresting duality,
Liberated he stood in front of the false kings,
Solaced, as he reveled in their corrupting reality.

Unmatched even within the stars, the fireflies illuminated,
For the desolation restituted with thunderous symphonies,
Without a name, he coronated himself, The King of Dark,
Animated strings coming undone, the Marionette commenced,
Wading through the dusk, the moonless night rested upon his shoulders,
Awaken now, he slowly ceased to muster, arrested by his duality.

Locked Suitcase

Locked Suitcase, carried close to his heart,
Clenched like an infant, it meant the world to him,
Little did he know his muffled walk had ceased,
With each step closing in, the euphonic sound matured,
Turning around, he saw a young woman, playing a violin,
Albeit he wanted to leave, he centred himself on the bench.

The young violinist engraved in her music, paused,
He said, "Young blood, play me a memory",
Soon, the sound entrances everybody around,
Taken back to his world of silver, captivated,
Opened Suitcase, read letters, vintaged polaroids,
His search was over, the memories found him themselves.



This small poem is about an old man who is wandering with a Locked Suitcase clenched close to his heart. He comes across a young woman who plays him a beautiful melody which invokes his memories and reminds him the key to open those trapped memories in the suitcase.

Winter Sound

Shaken by the winter sound, the village of martyrs arose,
Leaving their caskets behind, they walked the path of restitution,
Christening the night, the stars withered behind the snowy clouds,
Suffocated skin shredded down to saturate the soul,
Amnesiac pile of bones marking their presence into the white soil,
Empty rhythms echoed, troubled spirits finding their quiescence.

Snow covered stones obscuring their true identity,
Chasing broken leaves in the wind, they walked frantically,
For the search was not over, but the dawn hasted its approach,
Tiny pearl of red shone, evident to merely one,
For his blood finally called his shredded skin and broken bones,
As he finally rested in his own casket underneath the blood bearing rose.

Book of Memories

We are nothing but subjects of memories,
All of us perfected between moments,
Seeking beauty within cracks growing on our skin,
We flip these pages, inking our emotions,
Captivating, until the colosseum stands to roar,
For we are the only audience, wrapped within ourselves,
Walking, balancing ourselves upon the strings,
We nurture each step into a story.

Yearning for happiness, we bond with our brethren,
While some are lost, some stand with us till the end,
Just like this new journey, we have all flipped a page,
Resting are our empty five more pages prolonging us nomads,
Contemplating, we watch the moon change through our lives,
Landscaping, ordaining our journeys towards the stardust,
So, let us all join hands and let even the stars wonder,
Whether these beautiful memories can shake their thrones?

Frozen Blood

Abandoned like a nomad, he sat on the bench daily,
Each night, without fail, whispering to himself, desolated,
As his skin felt blue, eyes swollen, and blood frozen,
He mustered his aspirations, seeping warmth from the moon,
For the brumal winter shadowed, stars twinkled for strangers,
But he held the moon with his eyes, reverberating to its gander,
One laughing in its own sense, other just cascading some light,
One watched him change his beauty daily, other seeming like a firefly,
One slaking its solitude, other, a fettered wanderer,
As strangers just came and went by his bench,
He noticed some familiar faces, from past, and future,
For these changing faces were constant, just like his muse,
Each night, he fought with the stars,
And the moon stood by in solitary,
Unfathomable deeds were about to be tasked,
The show called, “Twilight and its façade”,
One little string to hold onto, a little beacon to cast,
One smiling face, a sweet warm “Hello”,
One could light up the night, another feeling rejoiced,
As this rhythm of façades is completed and dawn again.

Gambling Statue

Thundering roars of grey lightening, grey clouds,
He stood atop his own reflection, black waters,
For his empire of dirt was soaked with his own blood,
He stood there bruised, perplexed, face to face with death,
Thrown in front of broken statues,
His sanity was questioned,
All he could muster, was a giggle at his funeral,
The broken gambling statue stayed mum,
As they threw themselves in front of the mirrors,
They'd lapsed out of their own self,
For now the rain was over,
Gambling riots and bubbling colours weren't visible to naked eyes,
They talked about his free will,
Then clenched his own hands to write one,
They slept better with metal under their pillows,
And believed in unwritten rules,
He chuckled at the gambling statue,
The one who played favouritism to its last,
For what a mere objective idea could bring,
For how some fools abandon everything,
Letting some of his children enjoy the rain,
While others helplessly cursing it, in vain,
Some ideas were passed down,
Some memories were casted open,
As he breathed his last breath,
The bloody gambling statue was broken.

Back to Beginnings

Far beneath the black sparkling sand,
Tiny droplets wrinkled and overwhelmed,
Beyond the mustered bubbles,
The cascading light rose the curtains,
A soft serene melody engulfing the stage,
Night souvenirs ceasing the dream-catching.

Back to beginnings,
Encircling complete rhythm,
Memory brimming the ocean of uncertainty,
Ripples echoing underneath the veins,
Like a chandelier, ghosting anamnesis danced,
For the whispering paper plans now carved new paths.