Tag: my Poetry

I May

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.

Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.

Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.

I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.

Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?

The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?

As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.

Hello, Fool

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

 

Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?

When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?

More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.

Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.

Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.

What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.

The Twins.

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Storming the brain of the mind of the twin,
Had not the measure of love that would give
Joy, nor the hurt, nor the pain that could win
All the interesting decisions to live

Flying from Worlds where Happiness lives on,
Rested in homes wherein Lust oft deceived –
Laughing and waving with him Hope had gone –
Smilingly, Life in a whisper believed:

“Lying for thee, and then pining for thee,
“Crying for all, to be happy for what?
“Vain and unkind, to be sure, thou shall be,
“Naught to the world, in quandaries caught.”

Just like the Earth, in a dream for the Sun,
Blissfully aches to unite and be one,
Hearts of the two (like the Prodigal Son)
Waiting to feel then be crushed by the ton.

Waiting and waiting, to wait is a curse,
Lasting forever like darkness of death,
Hope has been carried away in a hearse,
Gone and forgotten to never be met.

Life which follows with a staggering sway,
Breathes with the burden of living alone,
Crying in anger and begging her stay,
Losing a twin is a reason to mourn.

Looking in eyes that do kindly seem true,
Life in a dilemma is scared to be weak,
Searching for Hope in a crowd of so few,
Now, to be happy, a love she does seek.