proclamation

i was tired of running,

chasing shadows of anon,

like a cryptic verve

surrounding the moonlight

until i saw the design

to man's fury.

his integrity lost in his self-consolation

just before

his reclaim from his chaos.

The rhyme and reason behind poetry

Words become fodder to a conscious man, fanning his existence in a myriad abysmal of language. If writing poetry is riding on snow, reading it is like floating in the labyrinth waters. And you emerge enormously quenched every time.

For all this while, I have considered poetry to be a gifted ventilation to pent-up emotions but only now i bring myself to believe, that it is a vagina of emotions. Inserting words, pushing words, producing life, through the lubrication of massive reading. Eventually experiencing motherhood, in your upbringing of verse.

Words sown by Yeats and Shelly blossom into embellishments of this other-worldly craft. Reading poetry is both reassuring and reconfirming to the rites of your expanding mind, as it's effect is purely psychosomatic.

It is mystical how a coat or a cat play the protagonist to a breath-taking piece of art, where poetry does it with utmost ease and matching eloquence.

What compels me to read poetry is it's mind-expanding, neural-healing capabilities. A poets takes you on a voyage of muse, culturally rich and historically enlightening. You scale the landscape of timeless beauty, vouching for unsung celebrities of life. It's when clouds become more deary than your folks. Not only you understand the genesis of nature, but also feel it's spiritual association, steering you to the state of divine ecstasy.

With every inkling you develop a faithful bond with your thoughts, revisiting them year after another. Just like a painting, poetry strokes the unbaked slices of your calibre, canvassing a picture of your inner-self. Both vivid and gleaming.

The nature of the medium is such that it allows you to be vocal and reluctant at the same time. Just when you digress in to the galaxy of metaphors, a comma lands you to the earthy finishing. Thankfully, there are no rules or covenants to compose poetry. It's freedom is captivated in your head.

A worthy aspect of poetry is its remarkable sing- a -song fluidity. Like a rivulet it flows across all shapes and forms.

Poetry by all means is an elixir to sky-high imagination and a catapult to massive soul-search or as Byron puts it:
"I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?"

the interface

pain spirals through cavernous
spaces of universe,
in its hysterical form
entwined in prosperous arms of hope.

dust becomes gold,
gold bereft of its shimmer,
in its eventful surrender to sand
through a perpetual abrasion with rock

and comes a point when suffering
is mistaken for strength,
like a spectacular umbra.
cast upon on a ghastly crest.

'hell breaks lose,
as hope combats it's
outlandish optimism
in it's quest for survival
ravaging its long worshiped gods.'

unanimously misled

Until yesterday the skies
froze to the colours of grey,
the world may have looked a sundry place
while it drenched
in its visions of dismay.

Beheld, the figurative clouds
tricked and frayed
the horizon
like a whizzler on a sunny day
and a saint wrecking damages to the bay

illusions, delusions, mysteries, what not!
failed to make up for its own discord

just as the silver lining
flung to pieces
as a frail sunshine, consumed it all
lapping sight
from the arms of its mirage

"let there be storm in the guise of gust
or be heaven dressed in absolute crimson."