#writersoftumbr

Ask it to stay, like spring. Februria in all its glory, cherry blossoms blooming like the story.

Of how we met, amidst ruins and scrambled feet, of how you left, the military green faded ashen.

Of how things left unsaid, pierce the veil of the person you are, when you wake up.

Our beliefs are tainted, which we once swore bound us. Our memories faint, like the backgrounds of a Wong Kar Wai movie;

Our smiles, feigned, chapped lips breathing lies as if a hymn.

Yet what remains, the music, the truth. The beauty. We long, not for each other,

But of people we used to be. Wild and carefree.

As if time had little conscience, as if we were home in each other, and the world bereft of us.

That love was true. This, however, is the truth.

We long for each other, because we are lost within ourselves. We look for semblance, but

There are four, and yet I only know one. As if they were as old as the sun.

On a spring night, beneath the twilight, we met as lovers do.

The warmth spread, till my fingertips could feel the lines of your palms,

Maybe summer,was the charm. The swelter of the breeze, when you had slept clutching a book under the blossom tree.

For what its worth, a stray lavender fell, disenchanted, like autumn’s spell.

Wilted flowers, in the pages of the poetry book you read. Dont give me flowers, you said.

They wither, like winters freeze.

In the snow I drew patterns, and then I wrote your name.

In hopes, you’d see and smile, with promise of a sunny day.

For days of thunder, watching the rain,

Spying your silhouette, across the window pane.

Sometimes like the wind, you come back each day, sometimes unintended,

Like summer rain.

Seasons, all of them are serene. Each igniting hope, anew.

Inspite of all, memory,seems to recall.

the only Season I knew.

I think, we do so much good. When we just listen.

When we dont stifle a voice, because we can.

When we dont muffle a scream, because its absurd.

When we dont speak, before the other could.

The mainstream of conscience, swimming upstream in a storm

The maple leave dried vermillion, gnawing the insides of my cheek.

Taste copper, taste iron. Breathe fire, breathe lead.

Mind, crystallised to atoms, transforms to dark matter, instead.

A fractyled chain of neurotic signals, a mind map of organised tasks.

A bone marrow, unmatched to kin.

Mind- have you been left out, within?

Are you mine? Do you belong to an ancestral whim?

Am I cursed- or deranged?

Poisoned- by voices each day.

If you have waged a war, with yourself or the world,

Then either you have mocked and self- deprecated, or cried absurd.

Anomalies. We are product of those. Wanting fire and ice, both.

Wanting the shower, but it must not rain.

Fear the unknown, yet long for pain.

Inequalities, the plentiful can end.

But they dare not. It would shatter pretense.

‘Strife makes us human’, it transforms myths to legends.

To be born is to suffer, your karma is your penance.

Wars, if fought, aren’t just ones on a battlefield.

With bloodied hands, callused knuckles, at the sound of the horn.

Wars- are fought within.

The fear, the eviscerated beliefs, the white noise,

fighting silences, louder than bombs.

If you heed to the war bugle,

what does that make thee?

Human? Entirely so. Damaged, charred mass of bones.

The casulaties shall be more than the dead bodies.

For those who waged wars, were too,

If books could be written in times as such,

Lover’s nonsense would be the narrative,

Parting would be sweet, locked in a room of grievances,

Deciding on the colour of bedsheet, negotiating subtle nuances.

Families would come close, some secrets shan’t remain untold.

Masked visages maybe, but bare of facades.

Fleeting shall become permanent, under the microscope of the past.

Complaining of lost keys, hairties, a sock, could bring about a worldwar.

If books would be written, they should be a wake up call.

For those afar, the longing is evidence.