Thinking on the Move - Beginning of the End

What do I make of the tolling of these bells? Where does my heart stand at the coming of these winds? If it were a fragrant flow, my mind would not be wary thus. Tis a sharp wind, a frigid wind, from places far beyond, where I've seldom been. It speaks of a latent energy buried in the pith of a rolling boulder, as large as a mountain and as loud as thunder. A fever flying in from the changing sky that is a hue of yellow now, crimson then and later a shade of a color unknown. Fluttering garments, windswept hair and a nervous twitch in the fingers and toes. A flag that drooped before, is waving now, the inconsistency in its flutter striking a chord with the fickle palpitations of my own bloody heart. A smorgasbord of emotions swirling and dipping, shifting and falling akin to the nobility and freedom that is now all around me. And yet in its midst is an intangible heaviness, teasing and just beyond reach, offering a momentary chance to touch but never the ability to grasp and control. Grief and goodness, balm and burning, malaise and melody - all bundled into one little fleeting window of time.

The pulse of this moment is as mysterious and bleak as a deep, hidden cavern and yet, it carries shards of a mild hope. Maybe there is a sun there on that distant horizon where this air is from. Maybe there is an inherent hope in all things that are coming to an end. For in every ending, there is a beginning to cherish. If not of anything new and bright, if not the birth of a shining path, if not an inception or a hopeful reprieve, there is always a consolation, however scant, that it is indeed, the beginning of the end.

Of Demons and Ghosts

Ghosts, they are near at hand,
Pounding hard on the front door.
Merry, mad, belligerent and bland
"We come to you from the memory store".

Demons, hanging outside the back door
With crimson eyes and smoky words.
A crack in the wall or a hole in the floor,
Then they float on in, in their hazy herds.

"Its a stormy night and the winds are cold"
"I ought to let them all inside"
"Usher em' in and let the folds unfold"
"For tonight, restraint, is no friend of mine."

A melee of sorts, a silent fray,
As the noise ensues, with no sound.
Ghosts and demons, grim and gray
A motely crew and we're all sleep bound.

Futility

Brick by brick, on a field of green
You built them strong and mighty tall
Walls to make you deaf and blind
Yet you see them still and hear them all

Pillars and beams to bar the sky
Mortar, mud and cauldrons of tar
Visions and thoughts they seep in still
No window unshut nor a door ajar

Curtains, coats and blankets hazaar*
Ales, wines, smoke as blue as the bard
The din of waves and the twinkle of stars
And yet these pangs, they strike you hard.

Forlorn, tired and aching you lie,
Throw spiteful, rabid questions around.
"Wherefrom do these feelings come?
Where indeed can my peace be found?"

A fool you are to think you can try
To shut out from you that which you breathe
When the air is steeped and laden with
Desires and dissappointments of a bygone bliss. 

*hazaar - thousand (hindi)

Anguish

Tis' a poor heart this, slashed and slain.

Intimately familiar with the contrivances of pain.
Anguish flowing like it were never meant to stop,
Swirling amidst the waves and in every cursed drop.

But let there be no mistake made 

In knowing which way my thoughts swayed.

I only speak of a loss of real love

No regrets held, no anger brewing on the stove. 

They say time is a healer and she will cure,

In a hundred years, she will I'm sure,  

But now, who do I chastise with this lowly flame

When all I have is myself to blame? 

An everlasting afternoon

It lingers like an everlasting afternoon
But now I ache for the barren night
Promise is a hazy gleam in the sky
I shield my eyes, I look away.

The rolling seas bring more to lament
To the shores of this quivering dawn
I tell myself it was worth this pain
And then I look for love elsewhere.

Tied up to the memory train
The churning is far too real.
Roiling and seething, like a black storm
In the confines of an undersized ship.

How will I sleep, how will I love,
While I carry it within?
How will I breathe, and make it count
When I'm listless and lost in your spin?

A fleeting gift

I beseech you to stay still

Lest you may stir the air and cause,

This dear moment to slip away

From the grasp of my senses in sway.

Rendered to quaking mush,

By the warmth of her tender touch,

Body, mind and soul - drifting

The veil of heaviness - lifting.

A song on the winter breeze

Sad in words, but of sweet tune

Through the depths of a black window

Adorned by a lonely moon.

I beseech you, my heart, stay still.

Lest you may wake her dreaming eyes.

Lest the world may turn wan again.

At the dying of this bittersweet fire.

Thinking on the Move - Words

These words are lifeless without you.
They do not breathe or feel without your embrace.

You think they are mine and yet, I don't see how. True, I dwelled upon and gave them form. But I would refrain to the best of my abilities from claiming them as my own. I would like to believe that they were always here - floating like orbs in all our minds, but caged by the rawness or absence of a means to express. I only carry them for a while and cherish their essence. Of what good is a wind that wont blow? What good is a seed you cannot sow? The moment they mean something to you, you carry them as well as I. The real wonder is how they go to you and yet from me, they are not gone. A singular ship that sails to its sailor. Read them, feel them and grant them life.

These words are lifeless without you.
They do not breathe or feel without your embrace.