The Final Piece

A tottering man on a lonely road.

Groaning, screeching and was calling out,

for the missing pieces of his soul.

Until he finds the pieces,

his barred soul won’t be set free.

‘Passion’, ‘Kindness’ are two of them

and ‘Love’ then made it three.

“Passion!”, he screamed, stars descended

Clenched hands though fingers bled.

Moonlight cascaded his being

The dark night got turned blood-red.

Bowed down on wounded knees,

He prayed with parching will.

The benevolent Gods then listened close,

‘Kindness’ sprouted in his soul,

Gushing rivers all just stood still.

Twas a long night, ‘Love’ was nowhere to find,

Gusty wind, through his beard, was hissing.

He was lost alone, he couldn’t go home,

As the final piece was missing.

A Bloody Creek

A bloody creek of memories
flows in my deserted heart
A blithering existence of centuries
in which merriment is disbarred
It washes my despair fresh
and leaves my soul scarred
It leaches to fuel the fires deep
these flames outreach the stars
It’s tormented, tired and anguished 
which once was hallowed ground
My being had never faced such
numbness, so profound
I sit quietly with my eyes closed
while I feel these memories dart
A bloody creek of memories
flows in my deserted heart

The Happy Doll

There once existed a happy doll
Long shiny strings, they control it all
It sings, it dances, it smiles and jumps
Its arms and legs are well-sewn clumps
All who see it, smile and laugh
It’s known to break the sorrows in half
It’s such a happy doll you’d think
Wide shiny eyes, they never blink
But, there is misery and no one ever sees
one glimpse at it, your soul would freeze
If you ever see it laying alone
or when the puppet master is not at home
You’ll find it in a dark and shabby drawer
Discoloured dress and halfway tore
There are fabric patches on the chest and back
They tell the tales of a subtle attack
It sits and smiles but won’t complain
It cannot express its perpetual pain
You’d hope one day it would bawl
There once existed a happy doll

Silence after the Storm

I deliver peace, I am not a messenger of mayhem.
I could never bow to anarchy and its believers,
I defy them.
However, I suffer from the carnage of hopes,
I reek of havoc and my dreams tied by a shabby rope.
My soul veils the fires of hell in me,
My thoughts haunt me like hell hounds’ swarm.
Do not mistake me for the hushed wind on a lulled sea,
For I am the Silence after the storm.
Still, I deliver peace, I am not a messenger of mayhem.

A few deep lines

A few deep lines to remember you by,
A few dead nights with quivers in my soul.
These lines are covert, faded and sunken in my skin,
They emerge back on my body when I am sitting alone.
They remind me of your hatred for me,
The insult, the jealousy and the fury I condone.
They’re healed, they don’t hurt and they barely squeak,
They lie mute under my cuff If I take a peek.
Well, the night comes back and I hear them groan.
Then I pick up my quill and I word their howl.
A few deep lines to remember you by,
A few dead nights with quivers in my soul.