THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: desire

  • Intentions

    Will my silence be enough
    To let you know I am no more
    Will you shake your head and smile
    And be as you were before
    Will it be my laughter that you remember
    Decades later on a summer noon
    Will you ask why I never came back
    Or lament why I returned so soon
    Will my face be what you seek
    When thinking of things past
    Will you forget the first day we met
    Was the day that we met last
    Will these hands that once were mine
    Remain forever alone in memory
    Will you extend yours just to share
    Their shadow so I could be We
    Will my words ever be able to describe
    This ache that now I feel
    Will you break my heart each time
    You want your own to heal…

  • The Man in the Book

    Sebastián León Prado @Unsplash

    Some day I want to be
    The man in the book
    Who knew what he wanted
    And loved what he took
    With no one to question
    And no answer to give
    With no thoughts on living
    And only to live
    Some day I want to be
    The man in the book

  • Deadbeat

    I beg…
    To differ
    From all those who earn
    At the cost of letting their freedom burn
    Away…

  • Taste of Sunlight

    Image by Riccardo Mion on unsplash


    My bed is in the corner
    Of an empty room
    The irony is self imposed
    But not without reason
    I have heard that darkness
    Gathers more in the deep
    And perhaps it shall help me sleep
    Faster than dying by lying wide awake
    Counting seconds, falling and rising
    With time’s unreceding tide.

    The curtain hanging by my bedside
    Often flutters in the night
    And it’s breath though purposeless
    Fills me with envy
    By it’s act of pure motion
    Sans a shred of emotion
    How can I be more than me
    When everything I seek I deny to see?

    Dreams; they die, my own are no exception
    Even when I have them
    Caged behind a glass case
    Cuddled in red velvet
    Caressed by Mozart’s Sonatas
    The flowers shall wilt, roots die and fruits decay
    Nature by nature of unrequitance
    Shall swallow none but one’s own
    For birds do not nest on trees unsown
    And those that I watch from the moonlit window
    They shimmer and shine
    Like gold and wine
    Broken; yes and crooked and white
    But they know unlike me the taste of sunlight.

  • A Line On The Sand


    Amidst the dunes of Rajasthan
    I breathed as an ocean would;
    Endless and eternal

  • Streetside Socrates

    Flesh and light
    Bone and stone
    Are same, similar; a synonym
    Of everything

    I gazed into the night
    Fragmented by the city lights
    Knifing the dreams dead in their tracks

    Scalped thoughts
    Hanging from the cumerbund
    Of the comedian
    Laugh with the wind

    There is no framework for fame
    Nietzsche is not a name
    And all that I know of shame
    Came from the fingers that blame;
    Et tu?
    Fuck you
    Bad words don’t exist
    At all
    For thoughts know not their origin
    But only the sin
    Of being
    The way they are

    Broken mirrors
    Cannot mend the man
    And broken man
    Never has a mirror

    Everything is going to disappear soon
    And the leftover void shall know
    There is nothing known as nothingness
    For even in silence the silence shall grow

  • Erosion


    I keep awake
    Watching the parched lightbulb
    (And the lightbulb perhaps watching me)
    With my hand on the warm doorknob;
    Leading halfway to hell,
    Till the caterpillar thoughts crawl out into the silence
    And cocoons of dreamless desires
    Flood the floor
    As dark pools of velvet;
    With skin like ash and skin like glue.
    Fingers of fire
    And butterfly blood
    Seals the sound of the oboe
    In the roots of time
    So the seeds of silk may flower
    And the fountainhead of pulse
    Breathe in the open every night
    To let the swan song of love;
    Traced on the tips of arched spine
    Leave the lips
    And take hold of the walls
    To make the voice of world
    Like beads of sweat; evaporate,
    And the colours of a carnal mind collapse
    Into nothingness
    Of everyday afterlife

  • Kohl

    There is shadow under her eyes
    Eclipses she called them
    From the tears left behind
    Of the pain that came far too late
    To flow and feel with the pulse of time

    I look at her bare back
    With the bedsheet pattern
    Still alive on her skin
    The crests of her shoulders
    Peeking like crescent moons
    From under the sea of argent hair

    So I turn away
    To another day
    A still life, blur, Monet.
    Years ago to this Tinseltown:
    People leaping out of their skins
    Skeletons dancing in glass cases
    The enamel skulls selling
    A hollow reed laugh
    And a touch at the base of your spine
    As a keepsake

    She was standing
    Under the irreparable light
    Doused in city flames
    And dressed in the dark left behind by dirty minds,
    Counting cars that passed
    Without halting for her

    My feet were silent
    My thoughts far too loud
    As I hovered round her shadow
    Like a leftover cloud
    With neither thunder nor rain
    In the threads of my vein
    But the promise of a shade
    And the warmth of a bed

    It’s been years since that night
    And every night since then
    Whence I swallowed her sorrow
    And she pardoned my pain
    And together we have slept
    Counting each other’s scar
    Some dealt amongst us
    Others unremembered for far
    And yet I can hear her
    Counting cars passing by
    And there are eclipses under her eyes
    From all the kohl she forgot to dry…

  • Iris

    Do not let me die
    In a hall with white walls
    Near windows overlooking
    The world’s asylum
    Filled with paper praying people
    Watering themselves
    Towards an early spring

  • Through The Lips Of Living Ghosts

    I live my life
    Through those who lived before me
    And triumphed,
    For mine are eggshell victories
    Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
    Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
    Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
    Alone in their darkness
    Wherein all ashes intone
    The pleasure of being burned alive
    Only to never feel, another touch of life.