The pragmatic spirit


the pragmatic spirit
which failed to live as a free bird
pinioned to the ancillary pedestal with bondage,
a pit of darkened sphere
where like a dragon is a holocaust

in the feeble body,
a sunken heart,
fears swing of life
forgoing and abstract
stares at the time pendulum

under the lampshade orange ,
dawned a ray of wisdom
a veneration;
an assimilation of glitches
burns the scared pyre
illuminating the inner luminescence

“The Silent Warriors”


Her eyes had become lifeless,
like a stone ,she stood unmoved, the life of iris had
turned into pebbles,
yet flowed from the depths of heart and soul
infinite incessant tears…
She was a mother, a wife or a daughter,
her voice deafened in screams of the martyr,
Tis the unmovable body of maybe her son, husband or brother,
nothing actually mattered …
He gave up his days of affection, lost nights amorous in the deep jungles infested
with insects and animals
deprived himself of sleep and rest to give us a realm
of freedom to live without fear…
he was hungry for days or sometimes raw food he ate
half cooked in deserts or on terrains
while we sumptuously enjoyed the delicacies ,yet grumbled on the pinch of salt
that was less in dinner…
do we realize while the handsome packet of salary in our pockets
we earned
an only risk of attrition & no apprehension of seeing the last summer…
why then like heartless beings we are ungrateful and forget the martyrs?
Those who lived and died for us, to fortify our existence and secure us a future
Don’t we owe a moment of grief,
a sense of gratitude or a moral responsibility
to support their loved ones ,
who laid their lives for cavalry
the silent 
great Indian warriors …
 
 

“Ego & Love “


“EGO & LOVE

“fidgety fretful , always had been his heart
he threw tantrums whilst, love wept and scattered like shards
stamping arrogance he displayed
in a corner few tears she shed…
a silver bowl that bedecked
overflowed with pearls
precious…

what a paradox
epiphany in delusion
he flaunts false pride
of translucent treasures
in possession
while she drinks with her palm
cupped
an incessant intoxicating ale
from the open wounds of
her chafed heart ,
with a smile gentle…”


the random conversation
misty eyes
choked voice
in midst of inner chaotic silence
affirmative or prerogative
one word replies
emotions suffocated
strangled in a knot
the lily beside, pleaded
few more moments sought
hesitatingly I nodded
henceforth
lone will be the journey
lone will be the path
under the blue
as two souls walk apart.

“My Life ain’t a stage “


Endlessly my heart cried
eyes searching frantically in vain
“where art thou”
behind the curtain of life
is anything true or is all disdain?
My life ain’t a stage
neither I a performer to enact or flaunt
in mystical attire as perceived everyone
..I ,a mere soul
wish to be a lotus
blooming in the mud
admiring the sparkling moon afar
from the altar…
Allow me to be my real self
I neither wish to be a actor
nor my life a theatre…
Spare me O! world
from the pangs of hypocrisy
from the rings of falsity
let me break away from the glitter of gold and
tinkling of coins
I’m a mere soul
elated amidst nature
blissfully admiring eternal creation
I live for love and affection.

THE LOST PEN


I have lost my pen

its nib – golden

once scribbled ceaselessly

while the world retired

to the cushion of comfort every night

the quill loved to brush against the papyrus…

 

leaking on blank pages

the painful emotions

which were witness of sordid transitions

helplessly,

yet as a powerful weapon

narrating every encounter thus illegal…

 

where is the indite

where’s the instrument

the sword -that sliced reality

spear- which pierced the raw veins

dagger – which wounded the cold heart

as a potion for lovers

and deadly poison

for hypocrites

lost somewhere

… help me ,find my pen

Tis’ lost somewhere

in the desert.

Tireless eyes-


Tireless eyes–

watch the setting sun’s scarlet mask

a young morn, enfurling petals

The lonesome cacti in sordid desert

orchids blossoming as fragranced love in cold hearts of summer…

What if they become tired and close for few moments

Nay! The noisy chaotic shimmer of dutibound survival

shall enforce them to be wide open…

not long to reach their goal

The pair of epic witness

thus shall retire

Ne’er again …

the world would look beautiful

when those pretty eyes  close

the curtain forever…

Copyright @ SoumyaV2015