Beyond Belief

All my misery, All my restlessness, All that exists when the Sun shows up or slips away, All the madness that grips me as I write, All the frustration, the muffled screams, the jaw-clenching anger, rage, and stupidity I feel while reading, All that painful ticking in my dusty room, All those corroded strings I strum with feeble hands, All my pain, remorse, and dejection, All my fears, dreams, and dramas, All that is sour, all that is violent, All that makes me cry — not visibly, but somehow, All that is dead, rotten, torn apart by the creator, All that is stale, dark, gloomy, dingy, And all that is sad, Comes from just one of my deepest incapacities — To sit alone, silently, within those beautiful walls. - ak

On a day when the Sun has receded.  When the air gets cooler and forms the darkest cloud ever. With the first shower of some October , When I sit somewhere beneath - beneath my roof and their sky.  With the mysterious fragrance from my damp acoustics. Where I sit alone with a cup of coffee on some evening after a hectic yet desirable day.  I'll endure my peace then. I might endure peace in those stress free hours.  In those crumbled clouds.  In those bittersweet sips.  I , slowly ageing , along with those age-old songs - which I would still remember playing on those dreamlike nights of childhood.  With those who would have seen life not as a passive spectator but like a drenched gladiator.  Who soaks in his own blood and whose hands are marred with dust and sweat. Who have stood by their words. Who when loved, did so greatly, and who if failed, fell into the abyss of extreme dejection. Who love poetry, music, litrature and nature. Who ...

When crossroads confuses With horns and lights. Puzzled with where The left and right. At dusk when motors Roar over workers. Getting back to nests Lazy like stoners. In rhythmic tapping And percussion of chains. Flowing from the city To the rural lanes. In calmness and Not in agony. In satiety And not in fatigue. An old, snow beard Dark charioteer. Sings highly For his beautiful mare. Who sniffs and nods To appreciate. The melodies of times Of her mother’s days. The charioteer sings In ignorance. Only to the mare And himself. Hence passes me Pleasantly. To the village with Least melancholy.  -Ak

I am a nomad of thoughts Sometimes I flicker from wisdom into oblivion , And then I'm gone, As if I had never existed. Sometimes I stroll through the woods, whose grasses have withered, With my own tiny, trembling feet. Sometimes I stare at trees, which I assure you, with a faint belief, have grown older with me. Sometimes I become a lone audience - To the trickling drops of water, Traveling to some place I can only imagine. Sometimes I'm in the middle of daily cacophony Where shoulders are brushed Yet none ever meet. Sometimes I'm in a glittery sunshine Or a sparkling dusk But Both of which entice me with superficiality. In all of these times , Wherever I am, I am not. I'm like those who never wander, like those who've never seen a tree, And never felt the rain. I'm one whose dusks are darkest And whose dawns hold no sunshine. It's like I've never been there Wherever I've been. It's like I've always been distant, Not here, Away. ...

 I thought, sitting in one gloomy room On a darkened day and a hollow noon - Had I heard any actual voice? Ahh! Just jittering pens and cluttering spoons. What are these voices that fill it all? From nook to corner and through hall. They're felt all day and yet unseen, They rush and run, and at night they crawl. It's nothing but my mind I dread, The places it dwells and the pages it shreds. Solitude feels like a carcass torn, By these voices stuck inside my head. -ak