comedie: beneath her righteous mask

my watch never forgets to tell me that i'm late.and i hear its whispers over the long narrow street ahead of me.the heat is cold in my ears as i stand .they walk past me.in rigid waters in this frigid cold.we call them kaelsas.the sanctioners.the empire's men.even in this empty numbness ,it seems almost impossible to look into those eyes.the rays of scorned heat in them.i shudder in their shadows as they sting past.i feel they have no skin,only cold rotten flesh beneath those vilefully thickened shrouds.i walk.all the benches are empty,except one--two dogs are napping in it.park benches are almost as briskfully naked as ice blocks at this time of the year,and somehow the chill seems unending and ever increasing in its verisimilitude.its more brisk than it was last night.its seems palpable enough to wind past even a micron of space. 

      they grey dome looks to be collapsing.held onto by threads now.not long,i remind myself.my feet seems bitter in this impugn frost.yet i cannot stop.not now.its coming closer i feel.my sole crumbles the lethargic maple leaves that are blowing away into a dark reign.the wind is stiff but less of a barrier than this heated frost..the Comedie-Française is waiting for its coup.its closing act..just a few blocks away now..i remember my first performance at the Comedie...Sophocles it was...

"Ah! my poor children, known, ah, known too well,

The quest that brings you hither and your need.

Ye sicken all, well wot I, yet my pain,

How great soever yours, outtops it all."

but all is long gone since..all but the memories are stiffened now..more elevated than before..The regimen are bellowing after.....they are swarming all over the city nowdays...most are arrested...their faces seem to justify thoroughly the crime they had committed...it was in the news yesterday...the refugee camps are all flooded...and there seem to be no other way..of course..Death is beyond them..they are afraid...and hopelessly in love..with what life gives them..My smile is crooked.and i find no ther way..i stop...here it is...-The Comedie de Française...believe me i find no humor in this...but I..its not even a word anymore..as if it ever was..But yes the Empire preaches its desires,the Government's regimes..and its time for us to give in---for them..for me,its a little bit different today....the clouds are muttering in their sleep...i hear them roar in their cimmerian dreams...there's a storm coming...and yes,Today..is the 5th of November...for the four hundred and ninteenth time in the burning pages of history....a co-incidnece you may say,my own little worldly nemesis..the day the providence falls....and Today,we play Ibsen...

         rise you all..

the theatre calls.

..and as actors we fall..

 i had a daughter once..Amber...she used to count the bricks by our street everyday on our way back from school...they weren't hollow then,the bricks...But i act now,that's all i am...a performer of theatre...i can hear them chastise their society..burn the mouths they themselves had put language to...and the aelnaeirs..they wanted anarchy...oh,how i laugh with nothing but absolute scorn..they say they love,they say we have power...and yet we rot..rot in this melancholy pot....the carbon smoke is all they seek,and they see,and they curse...poisoned water they made and they drank,till they reprobate existence...none feels...the soul in every cloud of smoke,the thirst in me,for beauty i see...nothing but beauty still..why not do they?...they made power themselves and now in power they despise...my cloak is worn,and i follow her into the stage,a certain Thomas Stockmann now..

     the virtuous never fails to lament and condemn the earth they walk upon...we call them poets..and so meek is their philosophy...the lead sky..the dim existence...oh,how they never fail to suffer,suffer the agony of this place they tread upon...i almost fail to put reason on this ..i find it atrocious to the least....Ah, i enter the stage now...its a packed house..i see David sitting...almost squeamish,as he spots me under the lights...and how happy are my mundane senses on seeing this..my pirate of a heart is washing away to the shores...i bequeath this to them...my final hour on stage...i have wings today...i fly to seek them out,scream through their tainted eardrums... i can fly, i scream..they give no notice to this..amusement is in the stage they see...like plastic dolls ,blinking their lecherous eyes...but today i feel no pain..not of the beauty or the empty rain..not even the bright sunrise behind the city smog...i escape today..not the world..but the dwellers of this land...cattles of men i see in front now..sitting like perfect gentlemen..they don't know it yet...they'll face the wind ...i'll tell them a story today,a story they won't forget...my conquest's tale...i almost see the shore waiting,but hear,he speaks now...

'......there is an excellent spirit of toleration in the town--an admirable municipal spirit. And it all springs from the fact of our having a great common interest to unite us......'

yes,yes..the common interest..the haelnair they call them..the refugees...we spank them for social reverence...oh,the murderous blasphemies of this jingoist state...i speak now,or roar rather in this empty air...

'every single day I will bombard them with one article after another, like bombshells . I shall smite them to the ground--I shall crush them'

   Providence prevails...we live a life of tyranny under surveillance...my attempt is to rise...the minority must rise...the People must fight...fight for the beauty behind the truths,the virtues,the moral preaching...walk through the poisonous mist now...and the sun may rise again...the sun we killed once may rise under the requiem....

And they are here,the kaelsas,they have known..the march ahead..past the men..but its out now,they are late...i smile..i can hear my shadow flicker...the disease is out to kill...my disease...oh,isn't it murderous tonight...People know...i can hear the gunshots,and the sound flows through me like perforated blood...i still speak..more loudly now..

'The majority is never right. Never, I tell you! That's one of these lies in society that no free and intelligent man can help rebelling against. Who are the people that make up the biggest proportion of the population -- the intelligent ones or the fools? I think we can agree it's the fools, no matter where you go in this world, it's the fools that form the overwhelming majority.'

they have risen out of their fatal cocoon...my disease has brought them out of their smitten graves...and now they fight....The Providence falls tonight...i bleed now,a few seconds more i say.....and they break past...the war is here...and i know its time...time for death..the World lives after tonight...and i laugh loud...

'yes.it is this.let me tell you-the strongest man is he who stands most alone'

i bow...oh, how they all clap..with guns and fires and grenades.....and here the curtain draws its final breath,and i stand alone...on the brink of afterlife..as they fight for tomorrow.....the Providence falls...after years i breathe my last ....Liberty is here...Anarchy at last....

the beauty of it all...

floodlights are empty, its close to dawn

wrecked night past in dream's glory..

now we wait,

wait for the eyes to burn bright,

wait for the mourning newspaper..

of a hundred deaths on a railway track..

a hundred more on the streets..

they are ribs,no flesh,around they roam

and for him in a softened bed-terror starts at home

oh,the joy,and the pain

and sorrows of a rusted bane.

it burns in agony,

in torture they weep.

and i see the beauty of it all,

chuckling, dead in my sleep.

The Messiah

he stared a long,narrow stare

b'neath of clouds

and 

of a darkened lead sky

saw creatures unknown

none that he saw

in heaven's catalogues

they,he saw,lived by the earth

of a barren land,and a grey sea

Descried a foul stench ,

of a madness,a disease.

approaching on went he

wore a cloak of invisibility.

saw tarnish and

poisoned bliss..

they spoke of wisdom

of virtue and love.

oh! of what frenzy they spoke.

beguiled under a loathful cloak.

the one with the scythe had a happy face

a gloomy smog over the one who smiled,

oh yes,he smiled a gleeful smile

an ugly yet a gleeful smile..

he hadn't seen a stranger realm,

had found no trace of evil man.

lying upon nature's bed,remembered

they had called themselves human.

my love is...

a day within a day

with the lover of yours.

will wash away in the stream of time.

as life lived ,is life killed..

and death is but a perpetual crime..

the highwayman crags down

the boulevard of life.

relinquish the drops of plastic love

till every drop of honey,from the transient

honeycomb,is sucked and dry

and he craves for none but afterlife.

yet thy bountiful love,in this mortal time

never lost,and stands aside

with youthful vigour,

as all deathly death

may capture time

not what time created in thine..

and thy love may live away

through the rust of night and grey

and thy life and time may call for strife

yet love in thine,will stay for thee

with an eternity of afterlife.

lady Macbeth--the figment that killed...

William Shakespeare may have portrayed a self-reflectory image of his own submerged conscience while creating who some literary critics may believe to be the greatest tragic hero in literature.And it would not surprise me in the least given the masculinity in his tragic plays and their, in a sense,glorific depiction.Macbeth,an augment of classic tragedy may be nothing more than an inflection of the self-decay that the dramatist may have been experiencing himself.

          But converging on the topic itself-the climax of the play comes in very early in act 2 scene 1 when we see Macbeth along with his dearest partner in grace lady macbeth successful in commiting the murder of king duncan,a point in the play,where symbolically-it all ends,and everything else begins...the locus of no return for Macbeth,furthur eluding him towards his completion of self-transformation..an allusion which began with witches's equivocating on Macbeth's Heath.now the annotation of the "Heath" to be the extent of macbeth's ambition as interpreted by some shakespearan critics may a bit vaultingly be a little far fetched in accord to my disposition,but then again i myself is nothing but a mere critic and an ameteur one at that.

          But one looks at the play and revives how an ambitious man falls under the servitude of his extreme ambition.and i look at the play,and macbeth and even my fickle-minded conscience prunes at the fact that Macbeth was at all ambitious.In macbeth i find a warrior,a soldier,a poet,a philosopher-a man whose greatness can never be under the shadows of any question but his ambition according to me is definitely.I am not shakespeare.Just one of his million readers.So considering my interpretation to be conclusive would be nothing less than naive.Macbeth indeed may be ambitious.But then where is his ambition before the witches equivocate on before him and the barren heath...?..then where has this striving enthusiasm been which sees him predicting his own downfall...?....and why not then has he not thought about murdering Duncan before the muttering of the witches's prophecies...?...had the throne no value then...?or did ambition itself needed a provoker more powerful...?...and where is that ambition after he has stolen the Scottish throne...why o why is it then sheathed under the ragged strikings of insecurity....ambition knows no bounds...and an ambitious person can never stop being one,and always has bigger and greater achievements to look forward to...then why is it that this great hero succumbs under the only act of ambition he ever performed..?..and how does that make him ambitious...??..men are ambitious ,thieves are so,polititions are ambitious,murderers are .....but how many of these men have grieved or infact have capitulated under self pity and guilt after just one act of ambition and has faded away under its wreath...?

            Macbeth is just a personification of the absoulte extremities of good and evil...of darkness and light..of the mortally virtuous and the immortal vile....with lady Macbeth

as their juxtaposition-a nexus,joining the two...we find Macbeth fighing for Duncan,the scottish king against the malice of state's enemy..by Duncan himself he is portrayed as Bellona's bridegroom and the valor's Minion..and here we find the immense respect and love the king has for Macbeth...he fights not for himself..he is no king...just his commander..a ruthless soldier,fighting for the country and the king-whom he considers as close as a father..we are introduced here to a great philosopher...and by his soliloquy in act 1 scene 7 we come to realise that his metaphysicality knows no bounds.

           The weird sisters is the first symbolic portrayal of macbeth's dark compunction, where we find an almost mystical supernaturalism in their very existence...Macbeth's own avarice personified....and their evil is striking enough for macbeth's conscience to start shattering like the midnight frost...and even at that minimal hint of dillusionment his demur loosens its grip on him...and the sisters-mere harbingers of Heacte who lies on the other side of Macbeth's conscience...indulge him towards the obscure tunnel into darkness...and the bridging tunnel itself-a passage of unrequited passion,bitter irony,vaulting ambition(not for any throne,but for Macbeth himself) and total equivocation...is nothing but a container of the depersonified lady Macbeth..because at the end of all,it is Macbeth who is glorified for his greatness,he himself who commits the crime and who commiting evil,becomes darkness himself,compeletely destroying his inner conscience in the process.and in the end we do find a great man.evil yet great.But we find in him no more conflicts or equivocation.he has completely surrendered himself to sin.and evil has flowed through every of his veins...and just before he dies..we do not find a poet in him anymore...He is Great alright...but he is no sinner anymore...he is Sin himself..an epitome of the devil...

            lady Macbeth is nothing but the tunnel that shoves him towards his self transformation...yes Macbeth may have been ambitious...because hadn't it been so,he would have never sent a letter to his Wife informing her of the witches's predictions and how he burned in desire to know more..

 " This have i thought

good to deliver thee,my dearest partner of greatness,

that thou mightest not loes the dues of rejoicing by being

ignorant of what greatness is promised thee."

             and Macbeth is hopeful, more than anything about the future of greatness that is promised to him and his

wife.and when we find lady macbeth,in her soliloquey,pondering upon the nature of her husband.   

 "art not without ambition,but without

the illness should attend it"

and what she says next is of titanic importance indeed

                                         "what thou wouldst highly,

                                            that wouldst thou holily"

which cleary gives an account of how weak his ambition really is as compared to his honor,morality,respect and love.And had lady Macbeth not been there,he would have definitely not murdered Duncan.but lady Macbeth is part Macbeth himself..she is non-existent without her husband,and this fragment of Macbeth's soul turns his promising hope into ravishments of ambition.lady Macbeth has definitely not infused ambition into Macbeth as we already see him to be an ambitious man,which swarmed up even more as Duncan annoucned his elder son to be the talisman to the scottish throne..but wasnt that inevitable?...didn't Macbeth already know that he had no legitimate way to the throne..?..and wouldn't he have accepted the reality,however rottenly painful and hopeless it would have been had not the witches triggered his visions of his own avarice...and catalysed his ambition in the process?...and even after this wasn't his ambition too circumspect to even utter the word "murder" let alone commit it...and had not lady Macbeth acted a promoter to his inner reaction. wouldn't he have surely terminted this enterprise..?..how can an ambitious man sermoinze about his own ambition...?...you may hate your obsession,but if it is strong enough you cant sacrifice it for moral quaints..but didnt macbeth do so at the end of his soliloquy in act 1 scene 7..??...didn't then lady Macbeth-Macbeth's own Dark Passenger defeat the laments of his rich morality which may have been great but omissisibly weak....here we see lady Macbeth as a figment of Macbeth's own mind,more stronger in nature than Macbeth himself-and the Valor's Minion crumbles under the precarious evil of a part of his Own Mind..and pushes his potentials to the verges of insanity...and truly indeed...Macbeth is too great to be influenced by an other mind..here we see a man,a great warrior losing himself in the labyrinths of his own psyche...and turning into a ruthless moster..a retrospect of something i once heard..

    we either die a hero,

or live long enough

to see ourselves become the villian

             Macbeth as i said is too great to be possessed by someone else...he is too magnanimous to surrender himself to someone else other than Himself...and didnt he do that..??..his decision to murder duncan apparantly may not have been influenced by lady Macbeth Herself but didnt the Bellona's bridegroom-the Valour's minion-the man with golden poetry surrender himself to the tyrannical and evil Devil ,till Macbeth Himself like Shakespeare who himself ended up personifying Love,Beauty,Time and Decay, ends up personifying SIN till he became a shadow Satan himself....?....and the transformation is complete when at the end of act 3 scene 4 the ghost of Banquo depart,taking with itself the remainder of Macbeth's moral soul...and the next scene observes a completely different Macbeth....doubtful no more of his actions..no more grief inside of him..no regret or guilt..a complete Monster of Evil...who is still as Great...as he himself conjures up the evil in the form of the three sisters as if their Master..he doesnot succumb under the tensions of sin...he accepts it..and masters it...we never see him addressing the witches as superiors...because he knows-He is greater... 

           we find him despising the witches;a paradox indeed..the wiches exalt and rejoice..on seeing the evil they have conjured from among the darkness...the old Macbeth is dead...what we see is a reincarnation...and here ends his relationship with lady Macbeth-for maybe he doesnt even recognize her form anymore..the form he had once loved...or Maybe...lady Macbeth...is the personification of Macbeth's ambition..but is not needed anymore....maybe she is

an ambition's ladder,

whereto the climber-upward turns his face;

but when he once attains the upmost round,

he then into the ladder turns hisback,

looks in the clouds,scorning the base degrees

By which he did ascend...

           He throws her away, knowing that she herself was that fragment of him which created this monster,which showed him the way towards the dungeon of evil but she maybe His only chance of getting back..she may be his only manifestation for salvation..she is the bridge between good and evil inisde of him...she is the tunnel wich seperates his two facets and when he disposes her out of his life-the only path to his previous self....we ensure one thing..there is no coming back for Macbeth...

            we see Lady Macbeth suffering without Macbeth...which gives us an ironical indication of how the existence of lady macbeth without Macbeth is alien..and we see her realizing how she has equivocated with her own self and tried to become what she was not..her overestimation of herself has cost her dear,and now we understand that it was ambition inside macbeth for the throne..but the ambition in lady Macbeth's heart was never for the throne but it was for her Husband....she is nothing without him...and inside him,she was a part of him..an ambitious morsel inside Macbeth who did nothing except catalysed His own desires,cravings and yearnings giving impetous to His frenzied ambitions.. 

            we see lady Macbeth to be an crude contradiction to Macbeth...

lady Macbeth's

         "come, thick night,

and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,

to cry,"hold,hold"

is a more intensified and powerful approach 

than Macbeth's

stars hide your fires,

Let not light see my black and dark desires,

The eye not wink at the hand.Yet let that be,

Which the eye fears when it is done to see.

which is a more meager form of facination and infatuated frenzy than ambition,the latter we see in lady Macbeth's proposition...

while Macbeth provides us with a personification of ambition without Potency and Vehemence..which leaves us with nothing but pulsating desire... lady macbeth symbolizes a more ruthless manifestation of Violent ambition...

inferring thus,lady macbeth's(who herself is nothing but a fragment of macbeth's own mind) ambition for Macbeth is far superior than Macbeth's ambition for the throne...although the perspective of both their ambitions differ-lady Macbeth's is directed towards Macbeth's glorification..and Macbeth's towards Duncan's throne...the former is much more decisive than the latter...and macbeth's weak treaty is metamorphosized by lady Macbeth into a more virulent force to be reckoned with, thus killing Duncan....and in the process entering the tunnel of uncertainty which leads towards Macbeth's evil...

Because absurdity is but a dream..you only need to fall asleep...as another effigy of evil had once quoted 

 I took your "White Knight",

and brought him down to our level.

It wasn't hard. See, madness,

as you know, is like gravity:

all it takes is a little push!

     
and Macbeth makes a villian of himself...and as the evil that men do lives after them...Macbeth lived even after his death,not as a golden warrior,but as a manifestation of the depersonified lady macbeth.Tyranny and Evil personified.

 And live to be the show and gaze o' the time. 

    We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, 

    Painted on a pole, and underwrit, 

   "Here may you see the tyrant.

Because in act 2 scene 1..as Macbeth stands infront of the sleeping Duncan,don't you think the obsessed dark figment of lady Macbeth takes over the ardent of the weak-hearted Hero?

deathwalk

and Death came to live,

in this ragged place

far from the chill,

of winter's maze.

at dawn He woke

before the common flock,

heaving a clumsy pouch

set for his walk.

rambelled He down the cobblestone,

the highway bore a path alone.

not far had He travelled thus,

Death came across a human cub,

who lustfully with ignorance,

does suck upon his mother's breast.

and Death,oh His bitter Death,

with a vileful smile,he stole away

the urchin's soul,while his nurturer,

with painted woe,in those eyes of grey,

confronted Death,with spiteful tongue,

ordered the life he took,and till he gave

back her son,around His neck she herself hung.

and Death,

ignored those snobs of the mortal being

carried on his walk,with his early reap.

passed he through a hundred stones

till mid-day sun,and the mourning she,

made thrist qwell inside,his heated self.

but smiled did Death,in this heath of glee.

no sooner than the heaven's eye

had perched over His burned head

He heard the chant of a lover's cry

underneath of rotten Maple's bed.

spineless Death heaved ahead

saw their lips meet, 

as blissfully as the morning dew

beautify the flower's bed.

and with that cruel smiling face

took an other's from the other,

even as the rueful self 

clinging to his neck,

warned the youths,of their fate

and the moistened love in thee lips

lost the moist to the heaven's beast.

as the Maple red turned to dust

oh mistress thine,lost her lust.

oh..the spiteful bearer forged away,

of blasphemies the shadowed being

had commiteth in this land of earth,

where ignorant Death had taken birth.

what she hadnt known,He was but alive

a figment of afterlife.

thus,smiled He with mockery

at the laments from a blunted knife..

as Death treaded away,

like a wornful tramp..

till the gleaming sun tired of life

dimmed in the dusk's lamp..

He heard the cry of another's child

playing in sun's narrow light..

and Death creeped behind that naked face,

grappled away his mother's brace

anguish within the narrow veins

of the aching spouse and the child.

but Death,joyous of its conquered soul

writhed towards its night beguiled.

on wintry night's silent heath,

when Death has worn its thickened sheath..

and just before sleep kills His day

as he rests His pouch upon the hay

sees a mournful crowd lament

an aged mortal in his deathly bed.

and Death,almost sluggish now,

crawls ahead with malevolence.

but as He casts along those grimful eyes,

vulturing the rotten meat-

The Mortal in his cheerful yelp,

sermonize Death's wretchedself..

"take thy to heaven or to hell"

he says,"life you live,is blessing indeed,

 by the devil,to drown thee in grief.

this vainful world acts along,

with pretense in a wily stage.

Oh Death,Lost lover mourns no more!

she hath gotten herself an other restore.

and wombless child,in womb despise;

widowed man in ring demise.

Thou knowest not, in thee kill,

life in man thou instill.

For life on dust is god's deceit

leaving us with Death's counterfeit!"

fortelling thus he slept in peace-

perplexed Death saw death released..

gave a rueful cry of strife,

consumed himself his barren life.

my lover in the mist

thou art a maiden of the somber bloodlight;

no other night's form,nor the morn

bear thy beautious self.

nor even the summer's being

with heated vigour,

flame thee from its frigid heat.

the thunderous flashes, 

before the rain subdues, maybe

glimpses thy thin silhouette

yet not utterly made then.

an' agian by the solitary dawn

before thy is exhausted

under the fleshes of the morn.

thou art what i percieve, 

beyond the thick thick blanket

of the rainy haze.

every night's night

when the sundial stops to graze.

all i feel are thy lips' fringe

with moistened glare. o visionary mine,

captured you are in thine rosy flesh,

and even if thy beyond the shadows exist

won't thee leave the cloud's chamber

for once, o my lover in the mist.

to his death-

morning of sleep
i hear them weep
peep through the veil,
     of curtains.
a child-hidden in pale,
mourned faces of demise-

but he,whose soul is taken
lies under the grey pallor-

whiten skinned,
         a prudent grin
brows near,
          his eyes shut.
minutes pass,
those stricken eyes
            look aghast.


carried from his tainted home-
fiend of Faust smirk away,
drags the corpse to his crusted cave.
the street of mourn,has gone to weep
inside the roof,he used to sleep.
 they thought,he lost what he beloved
the fiend rejoice,his rusted laugh.

none,they saw,his shadowed self
leave the corpse the fiend beheld.
scorn the faiths of his loved selves
 demise the bitter melancholy

made mockery of the living dead,
went to rest in heaven's bed.

all this and all,while i slept
they turned to stone,and dust again.
.

to her acme..

chiming moans in her sleep

her wraith of the pharaoh,and

his chatelaine,beauteous Amunet as fair Amenardis in

her pallid,arab made guile,much naked,

scented oil from her bosom,nipples protruded

against the Syrian linen

hands outstreched,under her maine,

yellowest dreams,in her naked egyptian moor

unfastened brooches,over her bare skin,
her Amulet chained,midst
her carcass of vile jewellery 
atop her breasts.

her luscious self 'bove heaven's gates,

fragments of her desire,lued to her dreams,

his majesty stroking those magnificent domes.

and summer's chalice,of heavenly syrup

drank,till indulgence of more recompence,

makes her chide within her again.

near she comes,to her acme.

the gashing waters of nile,lingering

for his smiling vessel.it comes,

splashing through the wakened waters..

and herself reaching through beyond her spread.

gasps of after-thought,revels she in her visions

it cease to leave,done its work..

she caress herself in her trance,

and within her moistened self

resorts back,to a drained night..

leaves her dreams for another while.

choices

        i have always believed the human race to be insanely naive.and how ironical indeed,that even after the enlightenment of our worthy souls we remain ignorant of what the world and the whole universe has to offer.maybe nothing real but the zeal of the imagination itself drives me high enough.i imagine the world to be a place for life.not a safe one at that i'm sure but a place none the less.turning around every corner of my vision i see nothing cept men,women,children and the rest flowing in every worldly cliches possible.and it makes me wonder.how irridescent is it of them to let go of things so simply and succumb under the titanic gory of serendipity.

"two roads diverged in a yellow wood and i,i took the one less travelled by"

                                                                                                    -Robert Frost


        the extent of my philosphy vary much to these lines by robert frost.we all travel different roads indeed and few are the times we are able to follow the path carved out by the myths of destiny.simplistic we are not and levelled thinking is way beyond our sense of maturity.we tend to take after those who follow,often retracing history itself.and imaginary shadows of burning creativity is lost within the the valleys of our mind.the world has been explored to every bit by travellers and explorers and philosophers throughout centuries and everytime they have failed to answer the trails of these mythical roads,leaving every conquest as an unconquered mystery.life indeed is an instrument of fiction and every page has a new beginning.but not only do these seperate roads divulge us under perplexity but it confronts every one of us infront of a great barrier to our future endeavours.choice.

"choices makes us who we are,and who we are,are the choices we make.."

                                                                                                                -Rev.Ken Sauer

         how simply some mere mundane paradoxes envisions our path ahead into subtle images.but whatever dreaded end we may face,choices are something we have to take and be solely responsible for.it creates and recreates labyrinths and makes parodies of our lives.we may be social in our operations but even then our reflxes are nothing but animalistic.every choice we make throughout our life defines every single cell of our identity.it turns us into whatever we wanted ourselves to turn into.and the meager fact that fate has no part to play in any of these events is torturing enough for us.we may end up in the same bucket of useless odour or lie buried under some ghastly cemetry,be we leave this world as prodigies of our own acts.we all have made choices,we face them everyday,sometimes knowingly obvious and sometimes not.it will be forgotten throughout the sense of time and pursue after some other souls to kill,but it will leave us with a scar of its ruthfulness and it will be forever ingrained in our hearts.life is an atrocious blasphemy,but we live it everyday,we create evil and destroy it thineselves.and even if we are left to rot under the darkened shadows of destiny we either prelude ourselves to a dark sunset or towards a blissful dusk.

ode on virtue

the old grey lady in white
cupped are her quivering hands
in borrowed robes she comes
her forsaken burns succumbed.
those amber filled eyes rotten
underneath,of empathy forgotten.
she looks to hear the drumming bell
she sleeps for an hour of peace
but those consumed rays just gaze at hell
just too noisy is the breeze.....




the vulgar dust of a rotten morn,
between the rusted voice of man
the partisan yammers its early horn
his choking sermon did began.
the betel leaves did tear away
beneath his turnished tongue
tenacious malign reign in grace
how naive indeed is virtuous man...




she lives no more than in her sleep
in nothing but the barking streets
ostricized by given grace
and wisdom owned my living men.
they drag their sons if he goes near
from her eroded self full of wear.
walks past 14th street,tells him be
while he himself sneaking past
empties his own cultured self,
on other man's painted walls... 




oh virtuous wisdom,thy righteous self
i beseech thee,for humanity's help
baptize us with judgement yours
so every vivacious self could cure
all of society's chronic disease
dispatch the tramps, laud thy avarice..

the rain of nothingness

how palpable this realm is really...indubitably serene a land,creatures englufed in varmint desires....in those smoky appandages i see outside the half closed pane.....though this unrecruited mind of mine is writing,hands immerged in paper,i see a mirage-the coconut tree,black with the red outscrape-lonesome as a static windmill..blowing up his mind in the weak gust under these drops of insanity...as every shrill leaf cuts across the wind shores,its seems to be waving at the blue dome upstairs,apparantly though reddened cheeks as if some painter himself has been dileaniting its sorrows..my vivacious ardor is of to work i feel...alas..unsatisfactory its work is...words it does not find in this closed room...doors shut and a window half closed..the floodlight works less..an old lantern it seems midst these mundane showers.illuminates enough to contemplate me in these surrroundings i see..indulging these corrupt eyes of mine,hungry for sleep to gaze past the silhouettes on the standing water...

its flooded with its burlesque muddy forms and it carries to the shores these daily chores of the neighbourhood..as if these broken drops are befuddled in writing a prelude to some scrappy work...i lighten again in half-naked murkiness...stiff yet frantic is the drug inside...it leaves my lips less of a grandeur than bequeathing the suave smoke....ardent i feel...conscience rues still...scratching at the musings i feel...it feels nauseatic.....i unlip it again,harsh it feels on my lips...nonetheless,avarice has lost out in the mist tonight...my concsience exalts its rejoice...disgusted i am at it..smlithiring inside like an imbecile..it thickens quickly,i'm aroused again from dizzy multitudes....empty are the terraces that eludes my vision..and its still falling...reminiscing this ardent soul of mine to much provocation..for ages now as if undending sands of a closed hourglass-  

how these drops elude a shrillness in the standing waters as if chiding a child in its sleep...its flashing past..the half closed  pane is drenched in the slow wreckedness...wicked it is not,it falls slow..it kills with patience---the victim is unknown as he does not feel the approaching dumbness..it smiles asleep in ignorant bliss of unknown treachery these drops culminate...yes it comes...the blush gone now..the gery,pallable emmisery to martyrdom..the paleness now awaits..and the world awakes in cold distress..and finally i ride to bed..ah the shimmers of the smoke has not vanished yet...i smear past the widened crevasse...my eyes fixed still on the window ceil..which moves to cradle me to lethargy till dusk again---

the naked vampire--

it stripped naked in my doorway near

i knew thy soul was full of fear,

it held my towels in its smouldered hand

bare of clothes,coarse like sand

it smelled like wine on rotten fish

like Butyric acid on a petri dish.

the pale brute,crawled past the room

i had no knife but a dusty broom

as he saw the shadows that was mine

he gave a cry like a porcupine

and i,i rose behind my winding fears

the whisk in hand,he doth appear

antagonized,i felt my mind

travel beyond a sense of time

remembered where the creature stayed

in forks,he lived for ten decades

dismayed thus i kept my calm

this naked fool can do no harm

b'coz in his shaven chest he bore

the writings of a skinny whore

sparkling through like flashing lights

kept me rouse for days and nights

it said words thy fear to speak

though it made the fool cry and weep

it said,

"o edward mine,since you went

with this filthy wolf,i'm not content

come here o edward,lets find desire

but first turn me into,a fertile vampire"

The Hourglass

linger each age...

akin a golden sage

it moves,a shadow with another

every hour does it synchronize with the other

harmonize with the world of fain

with a tick,and a tock

it moves with the flock

of tireless insatiate men

jaded with obscure vain.

and it doth turn,all o'the way round

the hourglass maketh a little sound.

laughs on the scorn of fate and death

awaits for each turn to spurn their faith

it hides the box of her naked chaos

the grim and wrath of malicious pathos.

a machinery of the prejudiced mind,

naps on the walls of every kind.

chuckles on the steps of the beauteous Morai

the clock plucks the thorn of every man's cry-

wither it not,nor rests does it after evey walk

fleets time's sheets,with every tick and a tock....

a christmas eve

thru the ages bygone,

crusades i have sailed till furthr'mre

amidst a distant dream i had bourne

thine vivacious self has been possessed to lure-

every jubilant carnival that hath ensued,

by dint of course thine has seen through;

nevermore,a cleft leftover yet been brewed

a day of twilight on the branches of yew.

thy yearn for an escapade within the far west

lost in a chalice of florid mulled wine,

a realm of the sage,the roads of bethelen blessed

thine smells of the mince pies;shepherds sitting for a dine.

thy weary self doth behold a serene land afar

a distant castle lit by flakes,of ancient flames

that chars a shadow.lost mistletoes hanging ajar:

the frost filled land of thick wooll'n hand inflames

the nights;or a fain tramp with his pharos,moving past the eve star-

thy sees the amaryllis floating 'neath the canopies,frames

o'the al'mighty 'bove the grate cover'd in tar...

thine hear the ringing bells rung by thee

chanting carols in bethels faraway maybe

children hymning the holiday song with glee...

'or stockings hang'd for the claus to forsee.

the heart of ivy cherish the christ

holms and bays of evergreen boughs

a bridge of paradise thru snow flakes iced

the abbey bells reminds thus of forgotten vows

sleighs and snowmen of the brightened hill

midnight's children are dreaming still

of reindeers, chimneys -of goblins and elves

as the bearded ghost glides past ourselves

as thy looks on:scottish pines are bathed with bells

with garland, tinsel and candy canes

but the star of bethelen stands gladly firm

as a host of angels glimpses doth affirm

the witching hour approaches the silent night

the new born king is here to fight

bells are ringing louder still, the bagpipers

are roaring.the barn art filled with

the three wise men who looks down from above...

thy forget what seen and thine yearn for a night,

to dwell in the stars , rejoice like a knight

revel in smell of the crackling goose

a butter tart or a chocolate mousse...

but thy corporeal life will drown my dream

stir thyself in a goblet of poisoned creme

the river defrosts- as the Twelfth Night is burning bright-

someplace else,a distant away,

thou ruptured star carries my yen of sprite...

ode to dreams- a vigilante,a regret and a secluded mind...

"a knife ,an edge, a winding road

its sharp,so steep,i stand alone

it works,she screams,i hear no voice

the blood,she drops,a distant noise

but the visions cease,lyk empty breeze

and sleep lyk a wicked charm,is there to seize

the pictures past,as in my dreams they do not last......

he smiles,they cry,i find no glee

he sharpens again,headlights i see

it cuts alive, close in on me

he has an alibi he loves to keep

as i wave my hands to escape the sleaze.

i wake again,killing sleep,

nostalgia then starts to creep

this time again the flashes leave,

those dreams i see,i cannot weave.....

wounded heart,a treasoned soul,

a jaunt to find a berth forgone.

he's got revenge,she's got her death,

i stand with hope , retrieve my faith.

he has let it go,she breathes at last

while i walk away ,under the gloated sun.

 this woeful world then creeps away

no memories of this phantasm,

but a trance,of lost artistry.

nothing more as i wake up

lose the trails of aftermath

and they leave me for an other mind

 cover him with a shroud of vile... "