Sunday, November 25, 2012

Fickle minded genius

Fickle minded genius,
Burns the last of the pieces,
Of his ever dismal life,
Counting by the minutes,
The ashes into smoldering heat,
Reflect the pain and the scars,
Face reflects a long lived journey,
Empty soul, without love,
Fickle minded genius,
Differentiates himself,
From the rest of the rotten crowd,
With brains placed on a mantel piece,
Intelligence lost within the crowd,
Loud are the verses,
Of the pope and the mistress,
Truth clad within the white satin,
Blood trickles down the thigh,
And the fickle minded genius,
Creates weapons of mass destruction,
Hatred of never finding love forever,
Burns the last of the pieces,
A child within suffocates and dies,
And the fickle minded genius,
Pulls the trigger,
Thousand lives undistinguished,
No religion, no caste, no creed,
No borders enveloping, no prejudices,
No hatred for each other, neither love,
All lay above the ground,
With arms and feet dangling,
Reflecting the same pain,
Colour of the blood remains consistent,
No Hindu, no Muslim,
And the fickle minded genius,
Fulfills the revenge,
The days he has been through,
The path he was forced to,
The learning’s embedded inside, carved,
Work of the fickle minded genius,
No religion, no caste, no creed,
Death is a procedure,
Proceedings need to be undertaken,
Lights a match stick,
Reflecting pain on his scarred face,
And the fickle minded genius,
Burns the last of the pieces,
Of his ever dismal life.

Monday, November 19, 2012

She was never meant

Part 1: She is mine

In times of solitude and distress,
When the pain of longing,
Of holding someone’s face,
In yours hands,
Your hands are dirty my friend,
Soaked in blood of others,
Who held the same infatuation,
Some may call it love, others lust,
But the feelings remained the same,
Of continuation, of two parallel lines meeting,
And the love of others towards her,
Caused distress and pain,
Of that same lonely heart,
Which pounded in its mid region,
Needs a black silken cloth,
To obliterate the love of others,
But the rays of others penetrate,
She was not meant to be for him,
She is the God of beauty,
The love of every man’s eyes, of lust,
She is love in different colours,
In different religions, symbols, signs.

Part 2: The hunger for her

She was meant for everyone,
Of that divine intervention,
She is every child’s unfulfilled hunger,
Every poor man’s broken shelter,
Of signs of ups and downs in life,
She was meant for everyone,
She is the hope of good times,
Of that cringing thirst of bad times,
When a man holds the hand of failure,
She is the cause of happiness, of sadness,
Of every man’s provoked emotions,
Evoked emotions, she evokes emptiness,
Struggle, of every man’s never ending desires,
She was meant for everyone.

Part 3: Green soaked in blood

And so blood was poured,
Families, friends, lovers, enemies,
All stood in the same line,
Devotees stood in disguise,
Some for the upheaval of man,
Promised for peace and prosperity,
In hope of quenching her,
But the thirst never seized,
The size of the pockets bloated,
With the bloated minds of blinded people,
Some clad in white and orange,
While others in pure colours,
Stood on a mantle above others,
She was never meant for everyone,
She always belonged to the people,
Who possessed the three symbols,
Stood over others,
Crippled the poor beneath,
She was in there arms, in their pockets,
And every other confined space,
After all she took birth,
From power and lust,
Superiority over others,
She was never meant for everyone.