Leaving Steampunk City

Hold the fort and wait for the cavalry, they said –
Pick our side and you will see victory, they said –
And there was a time when I believed their word,
Where I stood on castles fuming all coloured trees
To ground for trebuchets to fly us out of abyss,
But day after day we painted our great walls
With smog to block our breaths into darkness,
Gates were only opened to nature’s black debris,
Resisting was I to the temptation to leave all
Behind and hammer into similar enslavement
But on a different earth, a different whisper,
Somewhere where the greyness was never the
Symbol of life and all its essence, where our
Lost souls belonged to colours lifting us out of
Abyss without any sign of fumed destruction,
So, I followed my sailing eyes to an unknown
Horizon away from all kinds of hearts of men,
So, I let go of the fort and I picked my own side.

Read Between the Lines

A chronicler dwells in clear waters,
Just on the outskirts of a red post,
The prison, to which many others
Have escaped, is now left behind
To crumble before emerald trees,
Maps drawn to find this treasure,
But a compass might fail to work
Over here next to the nine paths,
The legend might just be a myth,
But to me, you only have to heed,
There is this man who disappeared
Behind the shadows of two sisters
That resided the crumbling prison,
So, avoid the chronicler that dwells
In clear waters for your own sake,
Find those who escaped and set
Them free from this awfully chaotic
World that is deemed to fall in the
Wrong hands like that of the sisters,
But love the rituals in the legend,
Sketched out of suns and moons,
Sending the star back to the post.

Branches to Snap

Little have I known about the
Depravity of a soulless branch,
The one that hangs its own
Head out of an ancient tree,
Loosely swerving left and right,
Storytellers around the world
Gather for a memorial service,
Serviced by the intellectuals
Of my distorted modern era,
And surely, I have noticed the
Absence of many immaturely
Malicious minds of many men,
Eyeing my crooked branch to
Snap beyond conceivable repair,
And let the storms ride over
The hunchbacks of these
Desolate Times of history,
The results of which is a
Sacrificial ritual to fiercely
Burn the ashen hearts of
Our Sun and our Moon,
And to beget another form
Of amorphous tree void of
Any symbolic growing letters,
Yet, its mountainous branches
Will feed on other crooked
Soulless ones like mine,
A repetitive scene that
Little have I known to
Have ever existed before.


Uncertain of the watered earth
(Dampened from a drowning sky)
To recollect the puzzled fragments
That grew on ancient branches,
Disintegrated by another soul
That was diseased out of society,
Something contagious is now
After my own insecure self,
Remedies with side effects,
And somehow I might be cured,
Perhaps, the notion of wild
Emotions will now disappear,
An erased historical movement,
Undermined to empower ignorance,
And certainly, I am now shaken
By this huge jigsaw puzzle with
Deliberately missing pieces,
Another movement to elude
A dimensionless emotion
Into many hopeful hugs and
Slightly less skewed kisses,
Buildings demolished for their
Outdated archaeological
Blueprints covered in dust,
But now, a third movement
Attempts to recover missing shards,
And renovate the soul into society,
Surely, this delusional phase is
Just a selfish juvenile uproar,
A system to infinitely drive
The soul into many dead-ends,
The cruelty of this life’s maze,
Constellations have begun to
Change or even disappear,
Severing the bond this soul
Once had with its own tree,
Dismissing all forms of guidance
To follow a narrow passage,
Just enough for few pulses
Of sunlight and moonlight,
And now, this quivering soul is
Branched into the watered earth,
Drowned towards uncertainty.

On the Verge of

Tell not the mind about the palpitating heart
As it surfs freely onto its emotional waves,
Keep the logic at bay to feel a heatstroke,
Just once, and maybe give it a sunburn, too,
Something that would bring joy after sunset,
Like an aromatic summer sun-kissed morning,
A breakfast to my longing lazy hazel eyes,
And as the world utters heart-full songs,
(An adventurous journey of many silences)
Mountains cry aloud many silences,
Waves crush wildly into many silences,
Thunderous lightening shocks many silences,
Until many silences shake the earths of our whispers,
A volcanic earthquake to erupt the
Palpitating heart while the mind is still at bay,
And then another heart-full song about
A hopeful journey of a dehydrating branch
Of a disillusioned tree that follows
The rotten stars into massive graveyards,
Tombstones carving elaborate false banners,
And as the morning cries many more silences:
Sacrificial ones, peaceful ones, hopeful ones,
Ones that would rehydrate that particular branch
Towards the heavens to soar over clouds of bliss.

The Ideal Stamp

Inscribe on it the tears of society,
To be sent on the edges of universe,
Let this stamp be on postcards,
Let it be on asylum seekers,
Put on it few symbols of life,
Water, trees, sun, or even birds,
And as for the choice of colour,
Let it shine the shades of humanity,
And remove all those numbers and currencies,
And leave but one word,
In hope that every soul whispers it,
As they stick this stamp on an envelope,

Lifting Depression

The mist gradually enveloped my soul,
Natural cycles of life halted,
Branches of trees snapped,
Leaves on the ground hardened,
My back becomes more crooked,
To look ahead was to open wounds,
To move backwards only eased them,
But the drums of battle pierced my limbs,
I had few breaths left,
And no chance of survival,
Then a being entered my curse,
The dark mist on my soul lifted,
The waters of life returned,
Now, my branches towards the heavens elevated.