3 AM

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a maiden morning ray

is all what it takes

hush a heart, writhing

woeful and ashamed

 

now that I am up, agonized

life treads, turns up gray

night snarls at me,

pardoned with eyes awake

 

blissfully proud and drifted away

in diurnal deeds of forte,

singing songs of merry

of facade, foibles disobeyed

 

©Written Frames, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

What kind of dreams come true?

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oblivious of what we people want

we weave dreams, illusive ones

which we never intend to support

 

we cry for inevitable

one anyway dies, one anyway lives, sooner or later

talons of fate for sure know how to collar

an iota of odds in favor, then eluding dreamer’s eye

in fact, the stage is set with a backdrop of failed trials

 

days and nights abound, we circle around

inquiring about the bull’s eye and what’s such in rage,

by then the passion of bowstring fades; the fancies

found in shoreline art weeping with receding waves,

lines in the palm portraying a different shape

 

we cry, we curse, we criticize,

and we lie to ourselves (Yes, to ourselves!)

forging a false belief, altering a dream within a dream

and, accept the unprecedented as our destiny

as if we humans are obedient kids, know not to rebel

 

I wonder how we surrender

to the upkeep, to the promises, to the luxury, to the assured bright

of future we hold our hope in

unless the promised timeline coincides,

future is what if not tomorrow’s ‘today’s time’?

 

I ponder what kind of dreams come true

or is it the dreamer who has more potential than you?

why do you agree to leave things behind, the things that are dear to you?

and hold on to things you never wish to?

 

the dreamer within is in deep sleep

with saddened beat and smothered heat

lips are bitten with a blemishing smile of a victim

scared and slaved to breathe, we lie there in hope-

to get hunt by fate in any shape, in any form

for the rebel inside us is no more

 

when standing in a desert with deserted hope

wondering what rivers to quest

having no thirst to quench anymore…..?

 

© Written Frames,2018

I am a lie

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I am a lie

told by trembling lips,

or an assured pair of eyes

I soothe the one in need and

implode the others who believe-

believe in truth of your lies

 

I am a lie

a word of hope to condole

that everything will be alright

when things go tough and tight,

hope is what if not a beautiful lie?

 

I am a lie

a skill taught to survive

the malicious truth

upon people scared to accept

rambling in vaporizing rivers of repent

as we rationalize

 

I am a lie

I am addictive and it is not a lie

I am loved and nourished

with me living is a lullaby

a true friend to hold

try me once, and

I will never leave your side

 

©Written Frames, 2018

Untaught

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in teaching of life and its essentials

lessons of the heart were missed you say

O precious how it pains

failing at futile attempts to swot

what and whys of hearts as they beat

 

arcane claws of agony and woe

delphic to the hearts unknown,

oblivious to inarticulacy of voice and blood-

oft that swells and surges,

such denouement of love comes slow

 

eyes closed, let cascades flow-

drip and dribble on a clenched fist,

tugs at the chest as water grows

death-or-glory of a drowning earthbound,

there lays the hieroglyphic book on love closed

 

lessons of heart are learnt not,

but write in volumes yet unbind,

unwinding the epistles of longings

as autumn leaves crack with sunshine

encasing the passion of summer preserved

 

unwavering, unabashed and untaught

our story of love

we dare to write

on our own

no one can teach us how to love

 

©Written Frames, 2018

Make me believe

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a multitude of leaves yellowed and dried

with a finger on lip

a few bit their tongue tip

doomed to be crushed, silently they lie

or am I deaf? No, none of them cried;

seasonally promised of rebirth-

they believed

 

so are we? we are parched and dried,

plucked from our hives, tired of our fights

flown off to faraway lands- barren and bare

no roots to provide refuge and no touch of care

will we ever bloom again?

do we deserve another shower of rain?

 

make me believe we do

I will bloom, I long for you.

 

To believe is not about what you think is right. To believe is to hang on to something you wish to exist.

To believe is to hope.

 

© Written Frames, 2018

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Baseline

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a venn diagram of vanity and virtue
the circles intersect in a community
ones character lies there
a portray of predefined traits

we accept what we already are
we admit what we already know
we grow in harvested lands
where wither the butterfly wings in husk now

when favorable,
and favorite is herd of sweetened fruits
nobody bets on a barren land
if first flowers are yet to root

©Written Frames, 2018

What shall I write to you?

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What shall I write to you, is there something you do not know?

What you breathe out is what I breathe in, is this how love grows?

 

What shall I read to you, is it my vocals that you desire?

Tuned to my heart rhythms, how you decipher my mute eyes on fire ….

 

Siege me, I am taken in your spell of us or have I been darn mistaken?

Your sweet touch lures me, I am a drooping sunflower so sun-forsaken ….

 

What shall I give to you, is it the tarnished me you long for?

I yield myself to you and will do, a word to you I give, if not more …..

 

©Written Frames, 2018

Not that I often write about you, but when I do it is always a poem.