Heavens are Far

Men come and then they're gone; 
Haven't even the Gods dwindled? 
Some are now a part of the lore, 
Others, just a dot, unknown, of yore. 

Yet, for things that are but a wraith; 
We kill, we rape, and thus, we declare our faith. 
But only to the ones feeling, 'tis a crime; 
To the ones dealing, these become acts sublime. 

And so, what will become of the promised lands; 
When we as victors reach there? 
Having already made one as hell; 
Isn't it time, to stop — and think what we're trying to sell?

My Reeking Thoughts

The night reeks of my thoughts and desires;
Nights that aren't dead,
Desires unmoving,
And preyed upon by reminiscence.
How the pile keeps getting bigger,
And bigger.
And how every other night dies,
With one of my thoughts,
Or desires.
Pure, but still reeking.

Like those satis burning, on their husbands' funeral pyres;
Women, that aren't dead,
Husbands unmoving,
But to keep their essence.
How everything burns, with vigor
And rigor.
And how they go one by one, as a reprise 
From those lots,
Willingly, or forced into such fires.
Alive, yet heaven seeking.

"Statutory Warning: Pretty Hard Stuff. Read at your own risk."

Tuesdays' Really Gone

'Twas a Tuesday...just like any other, out there.

But that was a year before. Or, maybe its a lifetime on...,
and my thoughts circle around the lyrics of "Tuesdays' gone".

The Tuesday sure is gone. With the Wind.
I bet, whilst leaving, it must've grinned.

Now theres' just this wait. I sit alone, bare, on the station
waiting, for the train, or on rails, the slightest vibration.

Can not leave the station. I'm the one carrying it on.
All the parts I play, and characters I don.

The wind comes back. Feel it on my face every now and then,
packed with the Tuesday's scent. Starting to forget I'm when.

Oh! the train did pass from here before,
— and maybe, I missed it;
or, maybe 'twas an express nonstop, I wouldn't know,
I was just too late to catch it...!

"Note: Prior listening of the song "Tuesdays' Gone" should help a bit :P"

In a Windy Winter Night

On the heels of a day mundane,
   another night has put its feet --
'cause dies down every fire there is,
   and a chill replaces its heat.
   And left behind are some bones, some ashes
      of memories, and mere dark stains, --
   to be scattered in time by winds harsh, and
      washed away by years of incessant rains.

The night has brought the struggle back,
   to rein in my thoughts stray, however vain --
thoughts do come, what're they if not hungry lions,
   and its hard to stop'em, from coming out of their den.
   Trapped between the jaws of those beasts
      should I give up, be a prey, writhing, --
   or play a tyrant I must, kills his own subjects
      who, and doesn't even feel a thing?

And by the window, against the wall,
   lie the vast plains of my bed --
quiet and empty, it resembles a Pharsalus
   and surely its' perfectly made.
   Flee from the encounter I can,
      condemn myself if I just, to the chair, --
   But punish the innocent clay if I,
      the struggle will be anything but fair.

So I go to this bed of mine, seeking
   subsequent glories, comforts coveted --
under the blanket, lose if I were to,
   at least the conflict may stay veiled.
   And just about the time when I,
      having won, was to fall asleep, --
   appears is a dagger unseen, of cold,
      and slashes me repeatedly, deep.

Though the cuts were deep but no more
   than those piercing words of theirs(/*yours*/) can reach --
I canvass the surroundings of my room,
   for the probable point of breach.
   True, walls you can raise against your foes,
      but what fort can hold its head high, --
   when the traitors are the sentries themselves,
      and the words are just words, from a disguise.

A mere look around was all it costed,
   to find the window with a missing glass --
only a paper I had, I tried to paste, except,
   when bronze is the need, doesn't work a brass.
   Stubborn was I, and I persisted,
      another lesson was to be learned, --
   irritated, I completely opened the window
      though this is not what i had yearned.

And outside, blows such a cold wind,
   and persists the darkness stark --
shivering are the dogs, or have,
   some reasons beyond their bark.
   Unaware of this all, was a flutter of moths,
      overjoyed, as they had a perfect host, --
   singing and dancing in the dim light of
      a distant, and warm old lamppost.

Maybe it was the sublimity of the lamppost,
   I got all the warmth I needed --
I slipped into my bed again, and
   the cries of old wounds went unheeded.
   Quiet have become things now,
      maybe subsided has their pain, --
   but those dogs will howl again, unless,
      the warm light of a lamppost they gain.

And perhaps, the next night when it comes,
   the cold will remain as before, dense --
and unclear may remain the path,
   laid down for me to embark. --
   But I've hope, for my warm lamppost,
      and for things to reveal their sense,
   then free of my borrowed crutches at last,
      I won't be creeping, I will proudly walk.

That Little Face

How you try to fade,
that one little face,
and so you start a chase,
for a new one to replace.

Initially it works,
but in shadows the old one lurks,
and on one fine day,
keeping your assurances at bay;

it breaks those chains,
that little face comes again.
To look into your eyes,
and to ask the question why.

All you're able to say,
how agitated you stay;
'cause you're not mine,
so you had to draw a line.

But is that enough,
or, you just being tough?
Will you ever forget that face?
And you ask, to yourself...!