Where to?

He went away
to look for the answers
of the questions that
couldn’t let him sleep.

He was handsome,
brimmed with enthusiasm;
pledged to fight alone,
but it were the city lights
the kisses and hill heights
that made his questions drone.
His changing seasons of life
got stewed and tossed
and the air of distraction
got them blown.

Then he went far away,
worked and earned for bread.
There he found his love
married, wished a life happy and gay.
They bore a baby, a boy
thereby he worked harder for toy.
Many years went away,
all the questions and the answers
got locked in his heart one day.

Dates changed so did his wife
who once promised for life,
she took their son and left him
he was depressed, dull and dim.

Then he went farther away
into the wild, some place in ruin
There he sipped his tea
revisited his memory.
Have had turned bald and gray
he was tired everytime, used aid to hear,
yet whenever he’d meet you, he’d say
“can you answer my question,
oh wait, what were they?”
-R.

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Instagram Account

I’ve been quite inactive on WordPress lately, and that is because I have started handling my Instagram writing account. Here’s the link to my account, hope you checkout and follow.

https://instagram.com/picturesquepen__?utm_source=ig_profile_share&igshid=qt6jdjg95adh

Regards.

The Man

The city has seen
the rise and fall
of a man with strength
The man of choice.

The child who ran on streets
fastening the tyres with sticks.
Too quite to bother anyone
yet dreamy, fiery eyes to put
to ash and dust everyone.

The young adult,
rebellious and exploitative.
Shouting with blooded sticks
Too loud to awake the street
And fire in his eyes shuffled with
lust for the love of his life.

The old man, poor man
walking and tumbling on streets
struggling to stand with sticks.
Calm of the millpond
inbuilt on the wrinkled face
yet disgrace in tears
rolling down the cloudy gaze.
-R.

December Daffodils

Reluctantly untangling myself
from the quilt fazed
between my hands and legs,
my head still sleeps
where heart shouts out loud
to not to miss the first
December mist.

With cheeks all pink
nose as red as if the ink
I put my shoes on
and step out to see
the Daffodils bloom.

A morning so blue
yet yellow,
sun hidden in clouds
yet shimmer,
December is dark
yet the Daffodils manage bright.

Messy Witchcraft

Bed of roses

Sheets of thorns

Tree captures love

Leaf breathing desires

Body spells mortality

Soul drowning in sins

Mercy demands pardon

Forgetfulness defining mysteries

Hope lifts the spirit

Expectation surging pains

Blessings inflate consents

Voodoos selling free

This is called the Chaotic Magic

Synonym for Messy Witchcraft!

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CAPTURING MOMENTS

I was sitting idly in a beautiful, captivating garden, gridded with trees that erected a canopy over my bench. The ribbons of sunlight allured the appeal of my diary that had some white and blue flowers printed at its back cover. Those immortal flowers seemed to have attained life as the strings of sunlight strike on the translucently shiny petals as if a mortal magic poured some elixir into them.

Sparrows, parrots and pigeons formed a musical band and collectively chirped in the most melodious tunes that I ever heard. Squirrels, taking part as instrumentalists, bit nuts creating a humming twitter that added sparks of inner sentiment deep down my heart.

There was almost no one in the park and even if there were; clicking selfies, landing kisses, troubling the band and some doing nothing. But he was considerately there.

My glasses reflected a young adult, who seemed to be still a kid at heart. He carried this placid, secluded, resting appearance and wore a calm like a millpond on his face, as a mask hiding some of his scars and revealing some, which he might be proud of. The charm of his charisma was crystal clear in his closure. He might have caught any of my attention if he did not have his mobile phone right in front of anything that was worth a photograph.

Though having this poise, still psych; he was as restless as the squirrel nipping nuts, hopping from one scenic beauty to another photogenic thing. He was as edgy as those troubled birds, flying over shorter distances and yet again repeating. He snapped everything and I wondered why because if he was a photographer, he must own a camera or if he was just a breezy prodigy he must have got friends. But there wasn’t either.

It was an hour of observing him and gradually just staring with absolutely no thoughts, as if stuck into a labyrinth with no plot or as if facing the supreme, yet no wishes to make. In that hallucinating phase, I might have let my eyes to meet his but nothing. I was into some utterly different world just when my phone beeped and all the attention that I guarded in my fist strained down from the vacuum between my fingers like grits of sand. Thereby, I decided to leave.

I put my glasses off, collected my stuff, picking up my diary I realised that how in a strategic moment those transient artificial flowers ran into solidarity on entering my bag’s dark, bidding farewell to the pretty sunny noon.

In no thought, I gave him a glance and grabbed my bag, I turned to leave just when I heard a click sound. Aloof, I turned back; again a click where flash dazzled in my eyes, it was him. I stood there cold into utmost perplex whereas he looked at his phone for a few seconds, then held his head high putting a smile on his serious, tempestuous face, like a tide in still sea.

Giving me no time to react, he said in his muffled voice-

“Capturing Moments. That’s it.

He winked and left.

(a picture I clicked of him taking another picture)