Where no one sleeps

a land where no one sleeps,

no one ever wakes,

inundated in the petals of reverie,

encrusted with the hues of red,

each soul is profoundly embalmed

in the hymns, of requiem,

rendered by the wailing winds,

there is something about this place,

but there is nothing extraordinaire,

save, for what is felt and seen

.

This is tagged as the poem for 23 November for NaBloPoMo. I am linking it up with:

1. Transforming Friday with Nature’s Wonders Prompt

2. Friday Flash 55

Unsaid words

the unsaid words die within after all,

wheels of time spinning, their relevance lost,

on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl,

.

I make a heap of them into a ball,

my tarnished repentance on it embossed,

the unsaid words die within after all,

.

I carry their weight, on my back, I haul

my believes against each other accost,

while on pages of past, their names, I scrawl,

.

I rub myself against comforting shawl,

saving me from the sharp bites, of this frost

of unsaid words, dying within after all,

.

their last sting marked on my heart, on its walls,

standing crooked, I am paying the cost,

on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl

.

I shed this pain bit by bit, every small

pang prodding, strengthening me, to exhaust

these unsaid words, let them die after all,

on the pages of past, their names, I have scrawled

.

This is tagged as the poem for 21 November for NaBloPoMo.

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Dissipate

dissipating into the slivers of my being,

I hoist my head for a last look of galaxies,

before I cease to prevail, in these imperious,

instantaneous, ripped realms of reality,

and deflower my skin, into flagrant

deceivers… these seraphs of fantasy,

embracing the abode of my soul,

sanguineous shelters for my mind,

away from dispositions of the world,

unevaluated, I dwell in locus of lies

.

This is tagged as the poem for 20 November for NaBloPoMo.

There was a religious “conference” going on nearby. The loudspeakers were actually making me deaf. After about five hours of public display of the religious sentiments, it came to end and thus finally, I could write something. I have got a headache right now.

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The Companion

grey-haired woman stays alone but for one,

a companion of sorts, a strange being,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

 .

with a breakfast of milk, butter and bun,

she begins her practice, old songs she sings,

grey-haired woman stays alone but for one,

.

never seen, a mystery known to none,

rumoured to be a demon with black wings,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

.

she lives a life of a recluse, a nun

in her drab white blouse, and silver earrings,

grey-haired woman stays alone, but for one,

.

who resembles her long lost love, her son,

to sights of his radiant face, she clings,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

.

resonates one dawn, the shout of a gun,

people come, check the house, finding nothing,

grey-haired woman stayed alone but for one,

who took her with him with the rising sun

.

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This is tagged as the poem for 19 November for NaBloPoMo. Also linking it up with the Trifecta Writing Challenge, where the word prompt suggests using the word companion as some one employed to live with and serve another or one that is closely connected with something similar.

Hiding in garage

there is something hiding in the garage,

the clustered space dominated by car,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

shielding this present time, by a barrage

from the bombardments, of objects bizarre,

which are something hiding in the garage,

.

enclosing nasal holes, this entourage

of spicy scents of Arabian bazaar,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

flowering like an old lady’s corsage,

from somewhere appears, an image of tsar

who is somebody hiding in garage,

.

steam wafts, like from a parlour of massage,

mist, fog, haze, I can smell smoke of cigar,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

it is but quite a wide ranging montage,

my eyes clouded in the twinkle of stars,

I am somebody hiding in garage,

a delusion of something, like mirage

.

This is tagged as the poem for 18 November for NaBloPoMo.

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On the bank

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake

where the footprints of past appear at night,

the sands cry blood tears with him, for his sake,

.

forlorn blossoms grow there, for him to take,

to let them flow in waters, in his sight

on the bank of the shallow crimson lake,

.

where, her existence, he would carve, and make

his pain glow in the long day’s last light,

sands crying blood tears beneath him, for his sake,

.

the monotonous routine, he can’t break,

his wild saggy face seems to him just right,

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,

.

he crawls, leaving his trail, of a weak snake,

tired of loss and living, he can not fight

sands crying blood tears, beneath him, for his sake,

.

he capitulates, no longer forsake

emptiness of darkness, so very quiet

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,

where sands cry blood tears, with him, for his sake

.

This is tagged as the poem for 17 November for NaBloPoMo.

And I am also linking it up with Poetry Pantry # 176.

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Her thirst

her grapnels incise my flesh

the grume squirts out,

my grin evaporates,

I bear the sting of her,

ripping myself for her,

she gradually stoops down to look,

at the affected area, and suck through,

while I squirm in bouts of pleasure and

pain, desire and disdain, to stop her,

to her thirst, I abstain

.

For G-Man’s Friday Flash 55.

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I am tagging it as the post for 16 November for NaBloPoMo. Please do share you feedback.