Let the words flow. Let the pictures speak
Posts Tagged ‘Blank verse’

Stone cold…


To indite this, another of those dreams, is like; to de heap,
another recollection added, wake up to nothing, I shalt.
A motion picture, it once used to be; a talkie, photo-drama,
a still image, it now is, lifeless, un-stirring and placid.

Bury thine memories, I believed, build distance over it, I could.
A pretence, being busy had been; I gave myself no time.
No control over them, lest de past haunt me, I bustled about,
liberate thee, I only could, from memories, never dreams.

De hunger for truth, blinded by, offered peace, when,
de underlying story, sought, I chose, to penetrate de veil.
Forget, absolute truth, there might not be, no rights,
no wrongs, repercussions, cleverly weaved, all along.

At peace, I feel, I am, tranquil, equanimity in sight,
on de eve of stardom, de long haul, repudiated,
tightly knot shackles, broken, my dream hacked,
out of de blue, like it’s just yesterday, my breath, knocked.

A pile of memories, at my best, I sit upon, knowing,
sort, completely reconcile, I will never will be able to.
De rose, long dead, de message deeply etched, flawed,
A little too much, I reckon, I laughed, I now shed a tear.

– De Nocturnal Poet


An illusion, it was but all, thy knowledge of it,
the very reason, experience it, thou were keen.
Strike thee, solid, freeze thou, amidst nowhere,
cracking through, thy very belief, then did what.

Gotten to thee, the illusion had, the only logical
explanation; an answer, thy stillness formed to.

Thine company long gone, leaving thee far behind,
fighting thine battle, all by thyself. A little patch,
rugged & rough, it formed, in their minds, never once,
the long, dark tunnel, thine mind, that was taken over by.

End of the tunnel, I initially chose to be, beckoning
thee, towards the light, a victory in the battle.
Eminent, failure, I should have sighted, was.
Something was amiss, back of my mind, it felt.

Walk back, for scared stiff, afraid, the knowledge
I possessed, thou were. Hold thine hand, lead
thee through darkness, where mere guidance,
midst heavy rains, coming across a fire, was like.

My own battle, fighting, waiting all the while,
I was, ready to lend a guiding hand, if need be.
Talk about, thou wished, not to.
Grant thine space, I gladly did.

A chance thought, I sometimes cant help but wonder,
the granted space, taken to be granted, turned out into.

Walking in the darkness, I now am. Where art thou?

– De Nocturnal Poet

Just another like pole magnet…

A like pole, thou art, being understanding, repulsion, thy only fruit,
de law of nature, that, it is. Like a magnetic field, a clutter, around thee,
there seems to be, de field, enough reason, for de matter to stay attracted,
a direct connection, knowledge of existence, never felt.

To me, a para-magnet, that thou art, to ponder;
leaving me, procure an external force, where shalt.
A delicate sense of understanding, realization, there lies,
one which, except existence of, find hard; thine being.

Am I sad? No, a loner, just another like pole magnet.

– Nocturnal poet

Last resort…


There aint a person to got to, not one,
to lend an ear, let alone solace, words
of faith, belief, lying, under layers of dust,
a shoulder to cry on, not available, lost.

Such time shalt sight thine thoughts, a path
lying ahead of thee, to seek, one requiring
courage, given the situation, thou shalt be.
A deserving place thou shalt forever have.

Speaking out to mother nature, on peaks
of a cliff, in grief, the story of thy sorrow,
woven. The pain of thy heart, as intense,
dense, like a heavy mist, in the air.

In thy last moments shalt thou sight,
the mist clearing slowly, the powerful
sun, burning it out, the world around thee,
as if, gone into nothingness.

The seldom sought path, a strong belief,
one requiring, to come back , faith over thy ability,
in words, shalt write them, thoughts put on paper,
in black and white, the clear picture depicted.

Putting thyself in the state, instead of,
throw that work of thine atop a cliff,
that the world below, resulting which,
shalt know thy grief.

– De Nocturnal Poet