Sunset Dreams

Standing on puddles,
You were certain you were alive,
Delivering angles of truth,
You welcomed challenges
As if they were your best enemies.

Yet, you feared the slight whisper
That kept you awake and drained,
Forcing you to lose your victory,
Letting you watch the wrong scenes
In your head, your room and the old streets.

Unaware and aloof,
The space invited a spur of noises,
You thought you were fighting them
But you caressed them with your silence,
And you tore up the torn walls.

Forever became the moment,
You were like a runaway patient,
Going through different circles and taxis,
Trying to dismember any bad memory
That was never made, only structured.

Sunsets called over and made you rest,
You confronted your blues and whites,
While the certified driver was proud to announce,
That people’s flaws were due to their nature,
And skins and cultures were all that matter.

No way that thoughts could mean facts,
Oh, but what a way to express a discrimination!
You remembered your faraway dreams,
Perfection and globes climbed up to your mind
Again, you breathe and slowly you feel

The rain, not the puddles,
The wind, not the heat,
The light, not the fire
The will, not the blood
The signs everywhere

And the limits you put
To yourself,
Forever becomes
A wonder
Once more.

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Grant Acceptance

Often at night, I would sing a song,
Imagining myself before a great audience,
In the silent auditorium; just how I’d prefer,
Just how it has been all this while,
It’s the same here and everywhere,
Except, the audience now
is nowhere to be seen.

Often at dusk, I would sing a verse,
Picturing myself in a busy café,
Where people like me would gather,
Sharing their sorrows and lost identities,
And though they might not listen,
They’d appreciate my voice, all the same.

Often at dawn, I would hum a chorus,
Believing in better days and wistful woes,
To the new homes and kindred spirits,
Hoping one or two would cry, whether in tears or laughter,
We would watch the sunrise together,
And I would hug them and say, ‘it’s okay’.

Often in the dark, I would cry,
Dreaming of wondrous adventures at the peak,
Along with friendly strangers met by strange fate.
And I would improvise the learned tunes,
As a way to show my gratitude, debt and ties
To those who are listening and those who stay.

Often in somewhere bleak, I would pause,
Thinking about memories of the past,
How ancient solitude and chaos are,
How little we have always been,
And I wonder if our voices are scarce
Because we are afraid to die.

Often I would forget, that I was nothing
But a paper human, scribed and written
With a choice of heart.

90°

 

Because sometimes I like to rant about injustice and such through poetry.


 
What a thought to be mended,
There was something else in the bin,
Yet it was unattended.
 
Limited coercion,
Unfair play,
Access denied.

Content was the shoemaker,
Seeing the fascinated looks of
Everyone but –
 
Others outside the window,
Still was borrowed,
Still was untreated,

Still was madness
Performed orderly,
Leaving no debts behind.
 
Yet, he believed in all his might
Those formal letters
That were never signed
 
Just like the front pane
That yells beloved
But sells taints.
 
Unfortunate were the metres,
Measured by lenient laws
And lost in the empty smiles.
 
What a pitiful premise,
Yet his eyes shine,
Seeing value for the first time.