And then we are free,
When fear is no more a mystery.
But a concept is fluid like a juice,
We do consume, but we can never choose.

To-gather,
Together.

The sea had been mine,
The Sun was all yours.
The land had been lost,
Since all Time will fly.

How would you still then deny?

The growth is a law.
The choice was my slave,
The Time will all fly,
Since they try to be loved.

How do you manage to listen about...?

The courage was all yours,
The seas had been old,
Moved like a ghost,
With a powerful voice.

How do you still manage to rejoice without food?
How do you even think when the times are not good?

And all days are but told,
The numbers are alone-
The body was my slave,
My soul is my king.

How would you manage to ever possibly begin?

Since there would be leaves,
A released reverie,
We would be there-
Perhaps a witness to this game?

How would you then manage to whisper your claims?

And all Time will all fly,
Like I said they would do-
There would be Time yet for more...
And you would look at the gates.

Would you still play this game of a battle between states?

Too Dearly, it'll be gone.
Casually alone.

A light, a light.
One for us,
And one for the night.

We walk, we stop,
Through these woods,
Throughout the land.

A song, a day,
Your children would play.
A thing, amiss.
Hidden away...

Going down, a garden,
A block, some memories,
A reader, an author,
A pen.

A photo, a mask,
A light, a light.

Little flowers, little time,
An Autumn comes,
The flowers die,
The laughter again,
Bids goodbye.

Imagine- a light,
A color for a night,
A light, a light.
Let it, reside.

Donkey loves to eat all grass,
Donkey loves to chalk out plans.
Doggy wants to beat em up,
Colonia'h eyes wide shut!

Ratty steals and shines like gold,
Donkey loves to work for free,
Doggy wants to beat em up,
'Contradictions' come n see.

Lambie takes all sinners good,
Lambie tastes like good ole food,
Doggy eats them with all pride,
'Mythology, you may write.

Birdie drinkin' seedy tales,
Birdie talkin' insurance,
Lizzy breaks all vertebrates,
Doggy has got hate in tails.

Sweaty donkey works all day,
Ratty gives him no such pay,
Doggy loves to beat em up,
'*******' shout and say.

Donkey needs no birdie tales,
Shout n say. Shout n say!

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have high hopes for you to see,
That I have failed a few times,
Which is partly true, and partly fiction.

Trouble, would you be my walking contradiction?

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have empty pockets and heartbreaks,
But I do have high hopes of defeating thee.

Trouble, as far as I can see, With my polished eyes, I'll be-
I'll be a painting in the wind,
And, A cherry monkey in a sanctuary.

Trouble, please stay there in ageless time,
with thoughts of breaking my skull, and I would be in pain!

Trouble, But I assure you,
I would fail again and fail better,
And I would rise again from the charred and burnt ashes,
Since the Fighter still remains.

Trouble, I ain't leaving, No I ain't,
But, I am ready to erase these stains.

Trouble, For you the trouble is,
The Boxer still remains.

Dear math,
If your x is gone,
Do not you wonder y.
Say goodbye,
Move on.

Dear math,
If Ya' feeling you need one,
Do think twice, since-
Twos are great,
But the truth is but a functional device.

Dear math,
Move on, would ya?
With errors and more.
You do have a gluttony,
To statistically ignore.

Signs, symbols, and tales.

Dear math,
Theoretically, with you,
At nevermore with variables.

Math,
Say goodbye,
To all those laws of squares,

Stop mathematically,
To count the viability of all empty stares.

You are but here,
Do not you wonder y.
Stop whispering to the ordinates,
of a blurry black sigh.

Dear Math,
Say goodbye,
And cheer up to face an empty sky.

Math,
With you, I am ready to try.

"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher,
Impatiently.
And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?"
Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write,
Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell."
"I know that"-That's what I said.

For a moment he glared at my hands
and looked around for something more,
He was staring at the broken walls and the memories,
of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor.

He resumed again with an essence of pride,
acquired in taste- "what else do you do?
Don't you like playing games?
Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter,
with bowling techniques..."

I was baffled again, thinking to myself-
"More Poetry? Please?"

But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy,
I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try."

He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme-
And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time."

And all I was but thinking was about this thought,
I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot.

And, he left the chair, the class was but over,
I thought "to make an attempt to creativity,
Which is both acceptable and sober?"

And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping,
The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade,
But, you see,
I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade.

I write poetry, I try to do so,
Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.

Dream Like an idiot,
Dance like a goat.
Deep like a wound,
The future's present ghost.

Since useful tends to be useless,
And the worth of it seems to be dead,
A message comes from the weather,
All things are counter, original and strange.

Light is fast, the mind is faster yet,
A cheetah seems to be the wind, but the wind
Pretends to soar.

A statue is tall, a giraffe pretends, to seek,
What's the use of a relative difference?
As the coordination repeats?

The sun is brighter, the camera records, the fact,
The Colors seem to call,
And keep all resplendence intact.

A healthy diet helps to grow, a blessing,
Does the same.
A rolling truck kills a shadow, the darkness kills a man.
The music of Mozart and the sound of rain,
Generates a good gorging delight,
The pattern of silk, and the warmth of fire,
Gives the direction to the night.

All things counter original spare strange,
Since useful tends to be useless.

Dear People of the World,
I don't mean to be slutty,
But please use me when ever you want.
Sincerely,
Grammarly.

I am born in a poor country,
in a poor society, with a poor soul,
In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world.

But I am Icarus, and by 28
I would be rich, so ******* rich,
that I would hardly be able to count all the money.

I do not know how, or why, but-
I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump,
And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere,
For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world!

And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts,
He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot,
He believes to make a difference in this world of men,
He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again.

But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind,
Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts,
And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday,
Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away.

And you read and judge all poems and points,
For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice.
Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise.

For, The world but moves between these two points.

But I would love to die young and rich,
Before I sleep like an use less snitch.

An Apple a day,
Can keep the innocence away.

Can you define, define?

Can you hate, hatred?

Can you lose, what is lost?

Can you ******, upon trust?

Can you water your wants?

Can you review your rants?

Can you define, elaborate?

Can you hate, hatred?

And it will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime,
Like a walking contradiction,
At any given time.

And It will pass and play genteel notes,
Like counting colors in dreamy courts,
Like mellowing butter,
It will rhyme,
Like a lot too less,
But Too much a crime.

And it will rhyme,
Like munchy days,
Like grief and thought,
Of mundane ways,
Like liquor at nine,
To say that I am fine,

It will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime.

And, it will rhyme.

শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
তাই তোমার জন্যে একটা কবিতা থাক
আমি দু এক কলম লিখি,
পাঁচিলে কাক, পাখির ডাক, রোমান্টিসিজম থাক

বরং তোমাকে ওদের গল্প বলি,
যারা অনেক দূরএর পাহাড়ে থাকে,
ওদের ঘর নেই, আমারি মতন,
আমি যন্ত্রনা আর কালো মেঘ এর দরজা বন্ধ করেছি,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি পুরোনো ফ্রেম এর ছবির বই,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি স্বপ্ন দেখা,

তুমি এসেছিলে, থেমে বলেছিলে,
সিগারেট পুড়ে ছাই হয়,
তবু আমি নাকি ধোয়ার মতন.

আগুন পাহাড়ে নিভে যায়,
গোটা আকাশ এর কালো মেঘ এ বজ্র বিদ্যুৎ খেলে,
সাপ এর ফনা তুলে তারারা ঝিকমিক করে এগোয়,
পিছোয়.
আমি ভাবি, আরো ভাবি
তুমি এসেছিলে , থেমে বলেছিলে,
এতো ভেবে হবে কি ?
আমি ঘুম থেকে উঠেছিলাম সবে,
আমি পাঁচিলে বসে পাহাড় বানাই,
আমি কাক এর ডাকে উত্তর দি,
ওরা সব পাহাড়ে থাকে, অনেক দূর
আমি শব্দ শিশির বোতলে বানাই সুর.

আমি ভালো আছি, তুমি আছো কেমন?
বলেছিলে ভালো..

অনেকদিন পাহাড়ে যায়নি,
আজ যাবো,
শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
আমায় কবিতা দাও, আমি কবি হবো.

An old picture for an old room.
An old song for an old day.
A visit to the other ways of looking back at time.

Sweet sensations, bitter sweet blood,
Rosemary and thyme.

8 to 8,
To live as said.
9 to 10,
Eat food again.

Sleep. At two,
Repeat the next morning,
With tuna stew.

Good, now you're a man,
Well, you are now you again.

Do not ask naked truths,
Do not trust your soulful thoughts,
Do not question the author and the book,

Good, you're now ready to get paid,
To eat food.

8 to 8 and at two o clock to bed,
To live a life, as said.

Said the author-to Ellis Red.

Mira is like the color of dusk,
Life without rhythm is no life,
Today she is leaving,
The dark clouds would burst.

Mira.

Mira is like my drawing book,
The pages are clad with steams of life,
She would be leaving, like a crying
dream.
I would pretend to sing a song.

Mira.

Mira is my room of mirrors and signs,
Life without meaning is no life,
I'm born a weaver, My chance of birth-
My mind is like her heart, made of sticks.

Mira.

"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."

Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.

He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.

Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"

He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.

Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."

Mister Sen,  this one is for you!

It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew

It has been a thrashing defeat lately,
they have been
Charred, and Burnt, and burnt and triple tossed!
And they’re still;
Munching and mincing the mundane motion of hatred-
to burn again, to burn profusely, a bit too more in their fiery lake of remorse.

They have been an admixture of life, loss, and liberty,
but they still seek to spread the mirage of a thousand dreams,

And, I have been a character underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
sleeping for a thousand years or more,

Well,
I could have been a mirror which trembles at the passing of hunts and hordes.

I have all been a fatty fuzzy Butter between burnt baggy loaves of bread,
And an edgy elite Ox dreaming essentially, incessantly,
to flutter like a doped dreamy butterfly.

But, their waves of cadence do not reach any height!
From that squalid catalog of their mistakes,
they gain nothing, seriously,
by stringing together, solemnly, their tattered pieces of life,
their vague memories of solitude,
and transcendental brightness,
they gain nothing, nothing but small pieces of an insatiable pleasure.

“This has been a complex composition of a Phenomenon, as you see.”-
said Michelangelo
“They would seek for a gigantic yawp!
There was nothing to be meant at all!” – said she, with perfect normalcy!

Coming down the road, all alone,
all covered with water and pebbles and mud,
People, as I see, talk of muddy days, diseases and the decease of success!
A slight fuzzy wind blowing into my face!
And the light on my door harpers the state of falsity.
I try prioritizing peace and calmness. She tries eating salads.
They try to wait for a better basic tomorrow.

But,
Everyone in the world was so doomed to happiness.
Their Morality was-
A mad- mad-
Maddened gaslight on those bloodstained walls!
They do not have anywhere to go;
I do not roam around anymore like a wild solid pig,
they do not sit down on the sofa with hope as their favorite cushion,
and-
They don’t try to adjust the temperature of blind follies and melancholic memories,
with perfect calculated mercy and normalcy.
Well, what they have is Michelangelo,
“And, Different colors made out of tears!”- said she, with perfect normalcy!

They all come and go!


But I still dream of green nights and glittering snow!
And about Distances which can be shattered into foam!

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

Of music of thine does scatter aura bright,
And scuds the wave of cadence to a height.

As tho' piercing boulders, sweet melodies float-
Like a winding stream of nectar-note.

O Sopranist! How could you even sing like this?
I offer th'slurry flames of drunken whispers, to thee,
in peace.

Of endless happenings which may question th'soul,
O Sopranist ! would you be always there to condole?

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
....
.......
.........

Nature has a beautiful way of saying,
That an experience and a change can be the only constant, as such.
That life on earth moves like a timid yellow lamp,
We breathe the heat of troubles, and we adjust to the newer patterns of the flame.
We try stitching together the tattered tattoo of thoughts and memories, which are lame...

We as characters, underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
tremble at the passing of hunts and hordes,
Sleeping to sweep out the dreams of a thousand years or more.
Nature continues to elude us to the constancy of change,
We rephrase, to repeat the act of movement.

Embracing all what is new today,
Would fade away like fallen leaves,
Change is thus perhaps, the only constant,
In brief.

There was a young man named Bright
Who- traversed faster, with colors-
Heat, cold and light.
He set out one day,
in a relative way...
And returned on the previous night.

An airless wind- he turned it super cool-
He stretched out to measure,
the chalky fingerprints of Death,
He took a chain, however long,
He made it straight, however tight,
Against the teeth of gravity and weight.

Vibrating Anger danced within the wisdom of Dark-
Over bellowing waves and ineffable foam,
to create tiny curled membranes of orbits.
How flimsy, feeble and fragile it seemed-
His yolk of thoughts screamed like a shower of shooting stars.

The geometry of winter sailed through-
the ponderingly wondrous locus of infinity.
There were those rushing waves-
mountains which roared of thunderous shrieks,
And, Ages on ages on a dead planet.

Then Came one Summer,
swelling with the pleasures of a velocity.
Which outshone the loss of fallen leaves,
And he-
sprayed iron and salt onto the light.

He became a young man named Bright-
who whistled in wonder to swallow the lake of dreams,
and overturning all its jars,
like a feeble fevered coiled ghost,
he vanished!

In a classroom of twenty or more,
The teacher walks in with a thought of pride,
"I am here," She thinks to herself,
And we all stand to wish, "Good Morning".

The Teacher teaches Literature,
The Teacher is a lady of fifty-five,
The teacher walks in every day,
With a lot of pride, especially on Saturdays.

She prepares the lesson plans,
Fused with the state as to what is to be taught,
As to what is to be reasoned, and what is to be asked,
She teaches all students who belong to a class.

She addresses the students, calling names and more,
Talks in all platitudes, and looks down upon the floor,
She teaches all students, about romantic outbursts,
She praises Keats and Tagore, but not Beckett or Hurst.

But one fine Monday, there was he,
A Cherry Little boy, Big eyed, Twenty three,
Asked a question about false nationhood or so,
She was a teacher with a lot of pride, as you know...

With a thought of tasty theories, and elitism in mind,
She bashed and washed him down into the drain,
As to not him, but his hopes were drowned,
And this is how the teacher throttled "The Questions,
Which were all around...."

But In a classroom of twenty or more,
'These' students never fail to follow,
'The' teacher walks in every day,
And usually, teaches Literature, on endless Saturdays!
She teaches approaches and Literature, on Saturdays.

'Caps' 'Lock', is ironically a key.

Butterflies flutter in through your window,
Red, yellow and blue.
In, like a shower of rainbows,
in all merry colors and hue.

A complete transaction of hope,
you taste a purple haze of ghosts,
And into the wilderness of dark alleys and self-doubts;
Of faces, and marshmallow clouds,
You're but mincing a mundane nifty motion.

There’s a bright cold clamor of colors!

Deceptively small and intolerably thin.
You are now a feeble paper on the outside,
But Shrieking hot lava within-
And, you are now shrinking down to consume the-
chilled cracked kettle of desires,
that staggers to breathe in-
Silence...

Blood, sand, and mud,
Scarred and scared!
Bright, white, and a pearly glow;
With Skies, and for open skies,
A miserable melody overflows!
And, you would wait,
Wait again.

Sitting alone on the forest floor,
Bygone breezes tousle your hair-
A few Kids-
were playing on the streets,
those shadows fleeting past your face,
You are now Looking out into the dim yellow beats,
Of movement,
And you are trying to breathe again.

You're but melting away your fears, slowly,
With the fearful symmetrical orders of fury,
Within a perfect infertile maze of an insured immobility.
You're Free,
as free as a passionately detached, platonic paradox.

A temple…manufacturing allegiance-
A grammar of edible dreams for permeating membranes,
A drum beat for an inkling, and-
A train, speeds by overhead-

It illuminates your face,
You melt in this information of embrace.
You are in- formation.

You stand alone now,
gazing all alone into the storm,
Wishing to fly away with your by gone dreams,
Just like Snakes and Ladders, and chimneys on the shores,
Just like a Shining silver plate full of diamonds.

I was born to do three things,
Eat good food, check out hot women,
And waste some time.
But then happened poetry, and pastel colors and more,
Of which I couldn't ignore!

"Between one and infinity,
I have always cherished the desire to free."

"An artist you mean? You mean philosophy?"

"Nope, but a wage laborer, working in a manufacturing industry?"

"Ha! There you made the point, friend,
Welcome to reality!"

"Anything else? Or should I just go?"

"You're living high, and moving slow."

"I mean, you know! anything else you want to analyze?"

"Nope you can leave your memories, just remember to never be an artist, that's it! Goodbyes"

"You see, Stars can never hide their fires,
For, An artist can never die with wild and deep desires. Goodbye mr.heckles! See you tomorrow!"

"Okay, it's late you must now go, you're getting late for the word salad!"

Moves out to the window, stares at the wall to burn his shelf of selfs!

Cut.

Gone are the days,
Of disobedience and innocence.
Gone are the days of, an-
Instrumental violence.

  Morning to the silky soul,
And to the shadowing shades of impermanence.
Morning to the dewy doses,
Of painting all accidents.

Long out to the zenith,
Of red bridges, and bluish seas,
Like a rolling stone troubled all alone,
To Bleed a maze of moss and broken violins.

But a mundane mourning for the silky soul,
And there are,
Some adjectives to condole.

These parts of an analogous appearance,
And moving along with,
some blessed rings of smoke,
A glassy, grassy stairway to the Vincent skies,
To the blinky stars, and stormy tales,
Moving alone,
But All alone, with fairy grooves and blooming dales!

What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?

Fire lies before you, while water lies behind-
A gentle air would help you, in case you do not find
the flame of poison, the ghost of grass
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, All are made of brass

Move ahead, wait hidden in line,
Three of us are kind,
But fire lies before you and water lies behind.

Choose unless you wish to know the unknown,
forever and forever more,
The tune and time and the ticking clock
would give you a minute four.

Did you find what's left inside?
You mustn't the hide show,
You can stand at either end,
And stare as the fluids flow.

I am not your friend, not your right,
Not even your first sight,
But as fire lies before you, and a little water
Clears the light.

I'll close my eyes,
I'll walk a mile,
I'll close my eyes,
I'll not be found.

It is true, and it is false,
And again later,
I won't find my voice.
I'll close my eyes,
To my Heart's rejoice.

I have not seen, neither
Do i want,
I want what is not nothing.
I bother not, i would close my arms,
For a long time.

Long, longer time.
Take your time.
I gazed a stare,
A gazeless stare.

I think I had seen,
A box, a lot of thoughts,
To be boxed.
To be thrown out, into,
What is pretty, much for this.
I seem to endure all of them,
I think I thought,
No it is not.
I walked a mile,
For what is not,
And it was to be sought.

The sound of flesh,
The song of flowers,
A pinch of sun,
The flow of fun.
O! Blissful blogs. Time wanding.
I am wanting, walking, building.

What?  Shut the door!

I closed again,
My eyes, my heart.
I walked a mile,
To set me apart.

Growing up includes a lot of sacrifices,
and swallowing salty tears,
and going out to the sea for an ever-more.

Growing up includes the option to edit,
as all machines are prone to make mistakes,
They all rephrase.

Growing up is but a short story,
of not being totally complete.

We Grow. We Rephrase. We Live up to it.

We Repeat.

Growing up includes the art of painting,
A successive series of accidents.

Growing up, in general,
is all about playing broken violins.

"Esther, I cannot say this,
Over the telephone"
"Why not? Is there something wrong?"
"Nope Esther no, there's nothing as such..."
Thinks to himself for a moment,
"You are perhaps the most beautiful song......"

"Hello you there?"
"Yes Esther, I had been wondering,
A cup of coffee, after work? Tomorrow?"
But all Esthers belong to the reader as you know.

And then again-" a okay would have been fine"
But he was out of balance, and you are
Reading a disconnected line.

And he needs Esther, Like hot chocolate and coffee,
But, The reader wants to know the music in between,
Mystical mysterious and it was a metaphysical time,
Connection is not always, a phenomenological rhyme.

"Hello Esther? You still there?"

"Nay,....,
I gotta go, but not tomorrow,
Maybe another time?"

The cars blinked in silence, with patience as a plan,
And, The roads were wet with water and wind,
The desires remained inside the buttons of the phone,
With memories and massacres, he went back home.

The reader, and Esther was now but nothing more than a lot less than few,
Endings perhaps never end with raindrops and dew.

And as, He laughed in a cage of a wondrous retreat,
He thought to help himself-" we are all but here to celebrate defeat. "

When there's no light,
Twinkling in the sky,
And No nothing attached to sounds, or to words,
A complete darkling then encircles my soul,
I am all within, and I am all without.

The evening recedes, slowly,
Into the huge enormity of the roads,
The budding fingers of a reflective drama, smoke a cigarette or two,
Trying to inhale the tiresome day,
All within, and all without.

And the stream of steam, and saucy lights,
Vibrate like a lamp,
Timid and tired, as the night turns grey.
The bottle of hopes and wishes fritters like encrypted codes,
In a mode of transportation, to the colorless doom.

The scheming clouds now wash out,
The streets,
With the ferocity of an obtuse flash,
All within the membranes of frailty,
The maze of entangled wires,
Embraces the dark, like a drift of velocity.

The people with no such reason or rhyme,
Return home from the receding days,
A song within,
And a thought without, half extinguished flames.
Such starry, telling tales, moves through the mirrors, of history and facts,
And ages and ages on a dead planet.

But all,
Within and all without, like a fake plastic evolution,
Trying to strip the string of lights,
Like an aged old ghost.

For, The night is in bloom,
And they would now sleep,
In the seven sleeper's den.
All without, and all within.

"Once upon a time, there was a queen,
Beauty admired her all existing being,
Generous and lovable and caring she was,
Once upon a time, there was someone as her" said Mrs Brown,
and stopped for a brief,
The kids were all gazing with a wondrous relief,
"Once upon a time.." She went off to say,
A story of beauty, and fairies and elfs,
Who can love you all day.
Who can love you all day.

And then when she said of wolves and dark doubts,
The children were listening but making face pouts,
But then when she said-"that there was Prince Red, who was but brave and saved all of that town...."
The children were going all like-"and then what Mrs Brown?
And then what Mrs Brown?"

And like all other stories she then well said-
"Happily ever after, with our queen and prince red.
The town was now green with hopes and new dreams,
Wolves were all gone,
And love was in air,
Everyone lived so happily over there.."

The children were smiling and laughing like skies,
The children went home with hope in their eyes,
But Mrs Brown knew, that the story was false,
Since when they would grow, there would be only wolves and dark doubts.

She was but hiding the mask of all truth,
She knew it well, that reality "ain't good."
But all that she knew,
And all what she did,
Was To instill a moment of hope in a brief.

The children would grow,
One would be queen, and one would be Red,
Some would be wolves and some would be afraid of fear and all dread,
Some would be good, and some would be bad,
The truth in all ways, would be no ones are glad.

They would be just there, between this and all that.

They would be grown ups, who would be standing between,
The conception of bad and the conception of good,
They would be grown ups to think-
"I but just could...
And I but just should..?"

Poetry, I give you leave tonight,
Tonight the rooms are all dark,
And the moon seems to be a ball of rice,
Poetry, I thus realize,

  That kids are born but all alone, to fight and to survive,
That brothers of mine would carry guns, and swords to imbibe the taste of hate,
My ministry of freedom, would ask me,
To celebrate the religion of chains and barriers,
And the newsroom would speak of a thousand dollars in a bank.

There's no doctor who would carry the reservoir of proper medicines,
There's not a police who would not love to beat up citizens and addicts,
There's no art in government and while doing duties,
This is evolution, evil and we write poetry at ease?

Poetry, I thus take leave from you, as sooner, as possible, my friend,
When the morning sky would turn blue, again.

There would be no one anymore,
To shout and speak naked truths,
There was no one never, to celebrate love,
There is no one to understand these galloping thoughts.
My poetry, you are and you were never mine...

Poetry, you are but an elitist propaganda,
A young blessing, but rather a burden,
Which turns out to be a curse.

Poetry, take leave thus,
And, I would burn the sentiments of such an insensitive farce.

Poetry, take leave,
Please, In brief.