THE HUMAN ANVIL

Category: poem

  • The Dance of the Dying


    I am here in the now
    Without a why
    Or a how
    Leaning upon this thought;
    Who am I
    And belong to what

    Is this world the same as me
    A life made alive in memory
    Of being a being without a voice
    Free to choose but without a choice

    And shall the death be all it take
    To make me cease and never awake
    And to not know what all this meant
    If the sinner in the end is same as a saint

  • Flame


    My life
    A candle
    Waning slowly
    Knows not
    For whom it’s burning
    Or why
    Just that it is
    And soon shall
    Dissolve
    Out of existence
    And there is nothing it can do now
    Except burn, burn and burn
    With a hope
    That when the wick goes out
    Atleast the wax will survive

  • The Arc

    The old and the dying
    Stood hand in hand crying
    Over the winter that came knocking
    When they were busy talking:
    Of the winter that won’t come knocking
    When they are busy talking

  • Brushstrokes In My Brain


    O these times
    These lonely, lonely times
    Of a single tear falling
    From a broken, crooked eye
    For the meadows sunk in shadow
    And shadows that each day die
    On the tar road turning homewards
    To pink hearts falling from the sky
    O these people quietly standing
    Waiting that single boat of hay
    Here are lovers with their children
    And servants with silver tray
    All waiting to be carried
    Somewhere in the ocean
    Where faces are not of plastics
    And even fishes have emotion
    O these homes are now softly falling
    Like snow on winter’s eve
    Left faded to fill a dry canvas
    With damp colors smelling new
    And there is no one to wake the silence
    And no one to hold the door
    Only brushstrokes that breath to say
    We are here for you are not anymore

  • Ascendance

    And slowly we all
    Shall fall asleep
    And know no more of each other
    Or of those who knows us no more

    But the stone shall remain stone
    The sea shall remain sea
    You shall remain you
    And I shall remain me

    Yet we, the us, that immutable thereof
    Of shared spaces
    Of pendulum breaths
    Of eclectic existence
    Will change
    Into dust
    Into wind
    Into silence
    And rescind
    Motion by motion
    Memory by memory
    Till all that is left
    Is only the sense of leaving

  • The Soft World Shenanigans

    Dry roads humping shredded towns
    Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
    Deeper dreams
    For answers within answers
    For silence within screams
    I see, I see
    Footsteps upon gravel
    And red lips on ice
    Dissolve
    In purple chimney smoke,
    Behind the farts of dust- rimmed truck,
    Where the grey haired goats grazing in saltpits wonder
    Why the fairies don’t give a fuck
    Clippety clop, clippety clop
    Horse hooves on silent sand
    Burnt toast, stale butter, wooden knife in my hand
    I see, I see
    Tears and bright ties
    Choking velvet throats
    Those colouring the white lies
    Like spit on anchored boats
    Bell jars in cotton
    Woodpecker in denim
    Breathing tinfoil fantasies
    Of midnight mind raining, whispers upon paper:
    ‘Wheatfields underwater
    Ether in eclair
    Cornflakes made of daylight
    And tulips in dark hair’
    I see, I see
    Last thoughts of dying beasts
    Merge with me
    So that I roar and I bleat
    Being eaten as I eat
    My own war-torn monkhood
    My altarboy retreat
    So I see, So I see
    Dry roads humping shredded towns
    Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
    Deeper dreams
    For answers within answers
    For silence within screams

  • The Night

    The Night smiled and the world froze into a mirror:
    An eye without eyelids
    A face without feature
    But timeless in its taste
    Like truth without teacher,
    With flowers on her forehead
    And sweat upon her thigh
    The sea painted on her toenail
    And the sun a firefly
    Dancing just dancing
    On her gold lips as lullaby

    And oft she would curl up to sleep
    Unwanting to know the names
    Of those who suckled her milk
    Only to sell it for pixie dust
    And white rum to last a lifetime of
    Blood on her hands
    Flames in her hair
    Dreams stitched in her dresses
    Leaving her perpetually bare

    Pendulum minds
    Prone to tongue tennis and cold showers
    Stare out the window
    At the hips of dark roads
    Fading under street lamps
    Like sunset on a shore
    Shriveled drops of moonlight on their face
    And she watching the cold blue sky
    And those blind stars; invisible,
    Laughing in the background
    Like extras from silent films
    Happy to beheld
    The recurring eternity
    Of everyday life…

  • Alter

    Life is rain
    Then river
    And the sea
    First alone
    Then together
    Till there is nothing more to be

  • Birth

    How far can one walk
    Away from the night
    Without knowing
    That it was the dark which said
    “Let there be light”

  • The Artist


    On a bleak summer day,

    A face all old and broken with lines,

    Peeked through the window,

    Eyes shinning with guilt,

    As he stole from behind the curtain,

    Moments of men,

    So that he could carve,

    In the stagnant listlessness of his home,

    A myriad tale of love and loss,

    To hang by the fireplace,

    For all to witness and whisper about,

    A myth, a saga, a tragedy,

    A lie to give life, 

    To him who never lived 

    And lives no more,

    But exists like a monument, his masterpiece, 

    Holding in it’s silence, secrets of the centuries.