Weird thing..this death...
it breaks people
like those tiny million glass pieces on the highway...
those splashes of blood droplets that rivers away in the bathtub...

Weird thing...this death...
no matter a famous fatwa
or an insignificant miss of a heartbeat,
its the same after a few years...
dust on  memories...

Though, in death,
two or more crying souls are brought together
bound by the pain of the greatest loss,
of parents losing their child,
of husband losing his wife,
of someone losing a pet,

husbands and wives,
fathers and daughters,
that someone and a new friend...
find each other,
closer,
caring,
perhaps more loving,
as they see the dark gap of loss,
of that empty space getting more darker with those shed tears
and happy memories that do not make you smile, but, keep you covered in bed for days...

they see the reflection of the person lost,
gone forever, but,
cushioning themselves with the woes of the next seven lives together,
or comfy clouds above..

they find in the other,
a part of that old partner,
a tiny spec of that warm care...
hoping against hope for the same yesteryears.

With the constant fight for space,
stoned eyes, disgraced,
the bastions of the calm space is surely to befall.
Sad. Saddened.

With the never ending spite,
smoke laden walls, and
talks of hundred interested men,
that calm space is surely to get revoked.

How then the rust wont garden my fingers, my mind?
It plays house with my soul,
battling with the alcoves of my thought...

Foolish harlots

The signs of a fool are many.
Some are privileged to witness the blunders of half naked maids,
with deliberate slippery dresses.

The look of perpetual scorn is etched proudly on their face,
wanting to think of it as a shield,
to guard the harlot's grace.

Fools! Fools!
Little do they realize that scorn himself shames away,
when they are called for duty on the ugly maiden's ashen faces.

Bedsheets and slippers, are their tools,
as intellect and thought,
cleverly wash hands off them hearing the slutty sirens for call of duty.

Perfumes and anklets bathe them.
They hoping for some handsome men to stop and swoon them.
The similarity between tissues and whores is clear, sadly for them,
blatant to even men of no-resistance.

Fools! Fools!
Who are you trying to impress?
With the stench of intoxicating toxins that play house with your sexed up body.

Ashen maidens in your stimulated reverie,
you make merry with random men, maybe, women,
making even Syphilis take to its heels, run for cover, ashamed, yet, amused.

The red lipped maids,
with their bosoms out on everymans face,
think sexuality is their trump card in every game.

Here's hoping that these witches and whores,
take to common sense and plead summon intelligence
to finally hit their doors, or alas,
they are bound to end up a pimp's troupe.

Sleepless nights...

The break-dawn slips through the curtains,
unnoticed,
this is of nights when you cant sleep.

When even music fails,
refusing to assist the slumber gods,
when  a toss and a turn is all that remains.

The warmth of the beds,
the fluff of the pillow fails you,
Stoic.

Birds begin their morning chirp.
They will never gain your forgiveness,
Yes. You will make your kill.

Your eyes,
seem adamant,
they will not close.

You curse,
you rant,
why do you deserve this??

Funny one

Funny you.
While the sweaty thrusts are at peak,
when the glasses are re-filled...
where do you go?
why do you leave?

Crazy one.
While the rest groove,
some drunk,
most pretend,
you,
watch sweaty men chase a ball...

Crazed men,
colours of red,
wage battle against the blues, whites, and grays.
Off-sides, and penalties,
you,
scream with joy,
while the others rejoice upstairs with half-empty glasses,
playing hide and seek with the warden.

You,
crazy one,
seem the most sane.
Sitting mid-way,
balanced between reality and pretense.

Random observations

Of rain...
tiny muddy lanes
and looking at people splurging...

Of rich lil boys perched atop stools,
with shifty eyes...
fulfilling anime dreams in the bathroom..

Expectations leading to fights,
inflamed eyes...
hurling spiteful abuses,
beating and battering...

Of warm beds,
and warmer lovemaking...
content slumber,
and sweet, sweet, sweet nothings...