Of that which is not

Twisting and turning, in the chicanery of a phantom distress
like a prisoner enslaved in imaginary chains, none the less;
I carry this afflictive weight of failure but of a surreal quest.
It is a hallucinatory turmoil impelling a fervent false unrest
and yet this covetous specter that invades me feels quite true.
And I know, it's a seraphic potent poison, that I myself brew
to which there is no veracity, no more than that in fantasies; 

it's a mythical story from depths of my own mind's mysteries.
Yet, even as my logical intellect is trying to fight this illusion,
I have well mastered this art of making an intoxicating vision,
that's invincible, that's is untrue and yet beatific and too clear.
To keep alive what does not exist I bicker, for its death, I fear;
I stop the dreams of tranquil sleep, to envisage reverie, dear.
A yearning lust for that which lives not in any but just in me
and yet it is too luscious to forsake, it's too seductive to be.
In actuality, the apotheosis of this dream, afar from what is
helps bloom a beguiling toxin, as crisp as a springtime breeze.
A frictional torment, that I powerlessly brawl to see the truth,
is blossoming as a merry tree, yet from which there is no fruit.
I wish for it to fade away, in my vision and from my dreams
and yet, even more, I wish it all be true, just like how it seems.
Though ashamed to feed the fire and to grow that which is not
I still bear this shame with grace, just for relishing its thought.
This phantom agony, this chimaera- seraphic mirage of dreams

holds the illusion so vivid, so sweet even in just its mere gleam.
Yet even in the abundance of the fact proving its non-existence
what if there is a little truth, a part of me argues in its defence!

Description of an odd beast

A malady they say, probably, they know the name to this odd beast,
but I know what this discord is and what it is proficient at, atleast.
A race with no well-set endpoint, a race that only you can perceive,
like a phantasm, an illusion, a mirage, a chimaera that you weave
of laces so inscrutable that you lose yourself in its grand conception;
undoing the truth from the deceitful forms moulded by this delusion.
A projection of the future that is distinct from today you love, but why?
Cast by obsessions, fascinations, fears, distrust -a sophisticated lie
but so genuine that you savour those obscure feeling before they arrive
Ironically you apprehend it all, and yet the parable gets the best of you
cluttered and ruffled up, escalating an effort to sort out what is true.
Like abiding anxiously to approach a climax, you sketch an allegory,
artistic though, does it not look too much sweat on an imaginary story?

To a winter storms I miss...

It clads my window with a velvety white valance, laced with the crystalline icicles, 

some rounded, dusted with the puffy flakes, but others pointing sharply like sickles 

And I sit on my bed, by the window, and watch the cars in the parking lot get iced

as the winter storm caressingly drops the plush pristine blankets, all perfectly sized 

putting the mighty four-wheeled beasts to sleep, with a rather sharp raffling lullaby 

with a clarinet played by the whomping winds and the baritone humming a soft sigh.

The fallen flakes of snow would rise to dance to this tune, forming powdery motifs,

one moment they reel fiercely, then the next, they lie as calmly as the farm sheafs

Sometimes, it just feels like another chapter of 'My Life' has been turned too soon,

I would love a few more episodes of the bright snow shining at the midnight moon, 

of watching that fat brown deer dig a tiny dried piece of grass, buried safe and cold, 

and the groundhogs; those look like little-rolling branches, delicately brittle to hold,

Of the wind that howls like summoned by a powerful enchantress of the far Nord, 

blowing as if there is an earnest urgency- like there is a  mysterious flame to sooth, 

It blows like it wants to apologize- 'you know, I am gentle, but you must understand'  

passing hastily, even those subtle frangible snow feels like the coarse prickly sand

Sometimes, I candidly wonder if the piling flakes of puffy snow have a healing verve

as I watch the snowflakes perch the undressed branches, on their sunburned curve

swaddling its wounds with a cool tranquillizing frost, pressing on their sky-ward side, 

while probably blocking the doors to the little wood-holes where the squirrels go hide 

perhaps the howling wind daunts the little brown and black Rabelaisian nut pixies, 

for occasionally, they do attempt to leave footprints on the impeccable snow carpet,

serine but unrest, calming yet fierce, delicate snowflakes yet harsh with wind-lashes

Oh, you northern storm, come as often as you can, with your soft white snow splash 

A Conflict

It was just another routine holiday morning,

she had just risen up from a lengthy sleep

nothing planned, just ingenious and boring 

she realizes this is just one more day to sweep

Yet at another time when she thinks it through

she knows there are concepts that matter to her

appreciated that vision of her in the dreamy cue

where she is thinking sharply even through a blur

One time motivated with vigour and intensity

like all mysteries of the world are her's to know

As she watches the hazy fogged large window 

with great clarity, she reflects with curiosity  

And yet at another time, she is fully detached 

from the pleasures of life, lost with no aim

the point of existence was almost fully crashed

felt like an undefined scoring system in a game

Along with these two polar stages of survival, 

there is third, a state that is more offensive to wit

it is the fear of landing on a sad number on the dial

and an anxious and stressful attempt to avoid it

Made a colossal effort to erect the faith that shook 
with the well-fabricated justification of her existence,

showing dreams of perfection, a well-written book

and the brown packages of that cute untold suspense

  

Maybe a special day?

What shall I brew my life with, she wonders each passing night,

At each morning's wake, she asks, what would she want of it today
Merry memories, funny jokes, dark secrets or just a pretty sight?
And then she decides she will live today in yet another special way

She walks through the woods silently, in the November's cold wind
She watches the morning sun and the dance of red autumn leaves
And a grey squirrel nibbling a nut on the dislodged Sycamore rind,
She hears the blue birds sing sharp songs, and then quietly she leaves

Then she spots a little brown fawn, that looks in her eye astound,
through the dried blades of what were once the lilac blazing stars,
ruffles his leg through yellow leaves, revealing the soiled ground,
In her mind she paints this sight, in an impressionist style of Degas

Then she hears the wheezing weeds, as the wind roars its charm,
She watches the fawn prance by into the glorious yellow aspen fall
She leaves this sight humming a song, how beauty is soft and warm,
it beautifully is, just what it is, she thinks, and nothing more at all

At each morning's wake, she asks, what would she want of it today,
And bravely decides, she will zealously try to make it a special one,
And at each dusk's dawn she says, this was just another special day,
And over and over this repeats, like a jesting comrades for clocks run

Each day like today, she walk through the colors of the wood,
Each day like today, she admires the alluring sights that come by,
And each night those stars arching across a majestic dark hood,
beautiful it is, yet, each day she lives just to watch the time fly by

She slowly smiles as she pensively sits down, on the radiant leaf bed,
as she watches the sight of ravens glide gracefully in a dance of rave,
And she feels the howling gush and fleeing specks of yellow and red,
And then sees the autumn leaves flow and takes their lead to the grave

The Poem

"That's creative" said the elitists, at my birth

 inspected me and judged me for my worth

Sad scars that made me were romanticized

and my melancholic beauty was dignified 

"Oh how novel, how beautiful!" they all said

tenderly recited me, over and over I was read

"I am so privileged " for a moment I thought,

but with just another thought, it all fell apart

More often than not, I know, this is not my fate, 

many a times, my life is as sad as I was made

for I am burnt or hidden, concealed in a casket

This indeed, has been my life's recurrent facet

Once she trusted me, and poured out her heart 

That once I was dear to her, now all is a wrath 

Unjustly glorified, I am a wretch born of sorrow, 

more often, I do not see the light from morrow

I think, I make her ashamed by my presence  

like a evil hoodlum, in her peaceful existence 

betraying secrecy, proclaiming her weakness

embodying her confused emotions and sadness 

I am the poem that she lovingly writes,

I am the poem whose presence she spites,

I am the poem that expresses concealed unsaid

The poem whose feelings sadly stays unexpressed 

I am the poem who is trusted with dark and deep

emotions and fears, many secrets I should keep

The poem that feeds on sorrow and feasts on fear

I am the poem, that you would never read, Oh dear! 

A rage on conformity

They did call me an imprudent insolent, brassy renegade
when I defied to join the cobweb this society has made.
I shalt sing this to those destitute meek men who concede
to the burden of social dignity, status, how lame, dolt indeed!

They build their bon ton and then sell themselves to it,
they slay the perk of their heart, just so that they can fit.
In that vacuous inane insane world that they forged around
in the pretext of society, they can't hear their own sound.

They once told me " you need to learn to live in this world,
Follow the codes of conduct, you must look good to the crowd"
I wish I could jeer on their thoughts or burn it in flame
Oh logic, oh rationalism! Where are you? this mocking Shame!

Now tell me, what kind of men have hearts that don’t sing
And their minds that does not want to dance and swing?
They live like breathing corpses, just existing, without life
hath no choice, no judgment, just too quail to face the strife.

Their eyes hath no ardour, just passionate in aping the throng
with neither a confident elan nor precept of right and wrong.
And their thought don’t flow free like a downstream meander
It is stagnated! Consciously marred, left with no ability to ponder.

Oh, Irony! Alas, your art so fine, I always hear them preach -
how to live, but they need to learn it, before they try to teach.
And when, you defied to entangle in the cobweb they have made
Aye! they will call you an imprudent insolent, brassy renegade!

Oh, judgement!  judge the priorities of my life with your thought,
a vision through your own eyes, heed to what is your own sought.
Recreant girl, it might seem, but it is a maverick's way to wade!
So be it then, for dreams are not to be entombed and let to fade.

-Swetha