The doorbell jingled, but not a pair of eyes looked up at him from their preoccupation. Gummed boots shuffled hesitantly towards the corner table that had only one worn out chair without armrests, fitted with a faded out cushion and a fabric that once was velvet but had not aged well. It was the most dilapidated piece of furniture in the otherwise esoteric but modern café. He settled into the chair, without moving it an inch, for it was just as he had left it yesterday. How he left it everyday.

With just a brief exchange of glances, the solitary waiter in the establishment whispered across the cafe to the espresso machine. The barista was late as usual, but his absence was not crippling in the least, as in these quiet hours, the patrons, strays and occasional inquisitive tourists were all that ever came wandering into the lane, and ordered nothing more than a coffee or a baked good; nothing that the deft waiter couldn’t handle on his own. He moved as quiet as a breath of air, his footsteps barely falling,and set down the espresso with complimentary biscuits on the table in a hauntingly immaculate manner. Not ripple spread across the dark, strong-smelling liquid, not a clink was heard. A customary but warm smile glistened in both their eyes and just like an apparition, the waiter was visible no more, only the cheap eau de cologne lingered. The man sipped his coffee, set down his cup and only then did he look up at the rest of the people in the cafe. He did it everyday, maybe silently hoping for a miracle which he did not see coming anytime so.

His gaze wandered over to a couple, sitting in another corner, nestled in each other’s arms, yet only few sounds were ever uttered between them, each enraptured in a fantasy of their choosing. The oppressive silence, laden with the whir of the air conditioner and laced with the fragrance of slightly stale bread, remained just as viscous and heavy in the atmosphere.

Mrs. D’Souza was seated at her usual throne, right in the middle of the cafe under a blinding light which made her look important against the dim interiors of her vicinity, with her usual cafe au lait getting cold in front of her. She sat with a tiny phone within her claws, as always still waiting for a reply from a daughter she hadn’t seen in twenty-one years. The man raised his cup towards her in warm greetings. She stared at it unfazed, forced a polite smile when she realized she needed to respond, and dove back into her phone. The wisps of steam rising from the untouched coffee, has ceased to be a while back.

The bell jingled violently once again and two burly men, clad in their Sunday clothes, chattering rambunctiously and a bit too passionately about a consignment that was due in a few hours. One couldn’t help but eavesdrop into their rather voluble conversation. A smell of jam tart burst into the room and in a flurry, the two rushed out leaving only the dust and silence to settle back on the occupants of this setting.

A loud horn passed by the window , where he was sitting, and pulled him out of his reverie. A loud splash and a few heated words later, even the street assumed its passive reticence, almost unwilling to spill its secrets.

His eyes finally settled, guided by the smell of a new cup of coffee, onto a miracle. She was concealed from prying eyes, hidden behind a jungle of furniture feet, underneath a small alcove in the wall which housed books and some damaged, framed Polaroids. A time-worn, dog-eared book was nestled between her thighs, it’s title indecipherable. Time has stopped in that corner. The light was soft and the silence was comfortable there. He stared at her for long but barely noticed anything about her. With her heave frames set on top of her forehead and an oversized sweater, she was far from tantalizing or even impressive. Perhaps that was what enraptured his attention the most.

The waiter was surprised, perhaps the first time in a long time, but he went and got a second espresso and set it down on his table, this time with an audible clink. The sun never reached the street and, save for the antique clock perched precariously on the till, there was no way of knowing how much time had elapsed in one’s preoccupation in this sluggish place. He got up from his seat. The chair moved with a soft scratch on the hardwood floor. The waiter watched intently and non-complacently, with  gaze that could only be described as taciturn.

The man settled down beside the girl; she did not gaze up from her book  and neither did he attempt to draw her attention, but they acknowledged each other silently. His pocket paperback edition of Camus came out of the peak coat, which had yet not been taken off despite the balmy interiors, and a particular page was thumbed out. Stories reignited after a momentary suspension from fantasy. The dust settled once again but this time the silence was comfortable.



We are but creatures of dusk, children of nightfall born to the maiden of twilight; brought into existence by the needles of the night sky weaving the frail thread of velvet of the void above. As the thin veil of darker greys perforated by the occasional pale silver dagger of the hesitant moon coalesced and the candles yawned into the darkness, we came into this realm. We tremble in awe in front of that which is formless and respect with every fibre that which is shapeless; yet it is us whose form cannot be seen and us whose shape cannot be discerned; so who do we fear? The empty spaces between the stars are us and the stars are also us; yet neither being us when we come into existence. We rest in the birch’s lap and sway in the manor of wind and drink from the chalice of the night the opiate of dreams. We are nothing more than shadows of the dying sun, mere remnants of the distant past; we are the children of infinity, the dust of the stars. In the calm whispers of the winds afar, in the primeval dark of the cold sea, we are those who sever the ties. We are the unsaid thoughts, the silence in the storms; we are the tears of time. The cold caress of the earth, the silent stones, the earthly tremors, the unhallowed sleep, we are the deathless wait. Only the forgotten songs remember our names, but does it matter? Identities get lost in the wrinkles of time and faces blur away, remembrances fade and we are the few who keep living even after that, nameless, faceless. We hang the moon on the arch of the sky and sprinkle the darkness with the flickers of fleeting light. We sing with shattered voices a tale of marred souls and cry for consumed hearts and springs forever gone. We are the smile of the autumn leaves that float haplessly in the north winds, we are the silver that crowns the land when the cold creeps in, we are the wind’s harrowing cry we are the sighing of languid grief. We sleep where the stars shriek their emptiness in the darkling sky and the water mirrors the still night. We rest in earthen cradles under countless skies, in the arms of the forsaken, in the solace of lost memories. When the wings of the angel break, we gather the bloodied feathers. When beauty dissolves we are the ugly face that stares back. We are the voices in your head we are the faces in the mirror. We are the embodiment of despair and tears we are reincarnation of fear. We are the footsteps in your shadows, just a few steps behind; we are the echoes in your silence, waiting inside. We are you.


A splotch of black marred the dusk colored wall like the spires of the northern cathedral that perforated the morning mist of the waking skyline. A few incomplete strokes of a haphazard hand told a story of their own, a story that no longer held any gravity. If you touch the turmoil of the noir against the aging walls you could almost hear her laughter. Laughter that was reminiscent of a time that seemed lost in silence of the passing days and the wails of the everlasting nights. The echoes of those memories can still be heard when you touch the tumult of colors in that forlorn corner of the room. On the other wall was a hole which bore a peg, now broken, and held a violin, now lost. He had promised. He promised that he would learn it for her and play her favorite song for her on their anniversary. The tune that played in the cafe that they frequented, that they grew to fall in love with over and over again. He had promised she would be the first person to listen to the song that he had been practising, the notes of which would probably never resound in the corner of the room again. The door which opened onto the tiny street that lead to the mangy suburb was right beside this. This was where they had their first kiss. There were no fancy mistletoes or gifts, no fireworks or encores. Just two lovers in each other’s embrace in the cold November wind, ‘gainst the starry black velvet that was thrown above them and their only audience were countless shards of glass that shone evanescence into the eyes from a billion miles away. The soft rustle of the dried leaves on the ground, masked the soft moan of the passion that rose up to the stars. A few of those leaves, carried in the soft embrace of the breeze, found themselves under the wardrobe. It was an antiquated one. The smell of fresh varnish had long since worn off, only a muskiness of the excesses of time remained. The grains of the old rosewood, gnawed through in a few places, bore the wrinkles of time, the tears of which washed away novelty, vanity and all that was superfluous revealing only the bare bones. The truth of the tiny room.

Scribbles were torn on the face of the wall. Those nights when he didn’t have money to buy drawing paper; and he had to split the few coins that he had between a loaf of musty cheap bread and charcoal sticks from the furnaces to draw with. Scribbles that he hated; detested almost, but couldn’t get himself to stop drawing. He hated the roughness of the granules of charcoal. Nothing came close to the softness of her flesh. Torn paper lay everywhere. Anger and spite lay scattered on the floor that had been unkempt for months now…since she had gone. He could never capture the supple soft curves as accurately as he had wanted, the lines didn’t sing to him, they babbled. Frustration had been flung at the walls. Musky red tainted the aged facades and stood out like a shock of sunlight on the rime covered soil. Crimson had bled onto the floor and in the late dusk when scarlet flooded in through the one solitary pane less window, only then the red find a home to find solace in. The room was bathed in the light and the splatters on the wall turned almost inconspicuous. Only for that brief instant would he forget the torment in his flesh and the agony deep in his bones and only in that fleeting moment did the drawings on the wall seem to coalesce. Come almost close to her beauty. Never quite.

He was possessed by an idea that had infected his mind. He soon defined his existence by it. He wanted to paint her. His wiry frame and unkempt hair grew even more so day by day. Only stopping work to marvel at the way the dusk filled the tiny room and in a way filled the void he felt inside. A solitary table stood in a corner, covered with candle wax and broken pencils and a loaf that he hadn’t touched in three days. Hunger tormented him but the agony of the madness was far more resounding in his bones. A horrible stench hung in the room. Vomit covered a forgotten bed which he only used when he couldn’t stand anymore due to the illness which consumed him too often. In the rains the badly crafted wooden beams that held the roof up would mould and the pestilent smell mingled with the dirt and candle vapours. He never seemed to be bothered by it, almost impervious. A thin garbled rag that draped his bones and offered almost no protection against the sharp biting wind that blew in the winter night and the only water was that which dripped through the roof and collected in a small mug on the frosted floor.

Marks were visible on the wall where he had stabbed the fragile charcoal sticks into the concrete out of frustration and then in a tumult of emotion, broken down and cried for the entirety of the remaining night while the distant chirping of crickets the only comfort in his solitude. A fortress of solitude that he had built around himself. The consequence and the reason of his own predicament. His loneliness gave him a sense of ecstasy. The hollow of the empty room resounded with the hollowness he felt inside him and almost gave him satisfaction of a carnal, fundamental nature.

He spent all the remaining money he had to finish the one thing he so desperately wanted to. The idea. He sold his mother’s pendant which was the only remaining thread between him and the world. It still wasn’t enough to buy what he needed. He dug into the last few notes and coins that he had saved for food and went and bought it.

The only ornamentation in his dilapidated abode. A large piece of canvas. Its whiteness almost unsettling against the bleak, dirt-ridden interiors. He knew he had enough resources only for this one sheet of pure space of creation and only one try to lay to rest the absolute agony that ate him from the inside. This had to be it. This would relieve him of the pain, which blurred the line between physical and emotional and was all-encompassing. This would rid him of the endless nights of starvation, misery, tears and rimy cold. This would be liberation of the purest form…

For the first time in three months he left the room. He walked to the hillock behind the town square and sat on the precipice of a cliff. For the first time in a time longer than he cared to remember the wind felt warm on his face. The scent of the petunias from the valley below wafted to him and he almost lost himself in it. Suddenly an amazing thing happened. Something which hadn’t happened before. It felt so strange to him, like he had almost forgotten this old friend of his and buried him deep inside a tomb of woes.

He smiled.

The dusk fell slowly. With it he gained a sense of surety. At least something in the world was constant. At least something wouldn’t just promise but forget after that and leave him wondering why. It brought him a sense of calm and acceptance. Something he had been longing for a very long time. That tiny little ball of heat that warmed his frigid heart and made him feel again. He wouldn’t have to bleed just to know he was alive. He could finally feel a flutter in his stomach, in many ways similar to what he felt when he first touched her.

He drudged back to his room, past the filth of humanity, past the suffocation of being in a crowd. He finally knew he had solace, no matter how insignificant. He opened the tubes of colour and put them in his palette. How beautiful the myriad of emotions looked on that little piece of wood. The lust of the crimson, the placidity of the turquoise, the blush of the magenta and the warmth of the yellow. He was lost in the plethora for what seemed like an eternity. He dipped his brush in the little wad of colour and began. Like a maestro conducting a symphony he orchestrated the colours onto the canvas to try and create the likeness of her. Like a madman he worked with a devilish fire in his eyes. Firm bold strokes of the brush to perfectly encapsulate the contours of her lithe face. It was rhythmic and strangely hypnotizing. He was in a trance, the brush dancing across the canvas like a swallow in the wind. Swooping down and soaring up in the same stroke. The lines were beautiful for the first time he thought. Her face showed through, as if buried deep within the layers waiting aeons only to be excavated by his masterful hands. He would stop momentarily just to touch her face caress her lips and run his fingers down the side of her face almost as if he could touch her and almost as if she touched his very being, reaching out through the canvas. For the first time frustration did not consume him because she was perfect. Every stroke, every line, every etch was exactly how her countenance had been burnt into his memory. Perfection.

Time held no meaning for him and little did he realize that seven dusks had passed his window without him stopping his work. He thought little of the exhaustion and hunger that plagued his body and the fatigue that charred his mind. His soul was content. His heart? Well it had been ripped out. He felt nothing, saw nothing only drew. Finally she was complete. She was perfection. She was liberation. A single tear welled up in his eye, rolled down his face, hesitated an instant at the edge and chose to let go and fall. He placed his lips against hers and kissed her for one last time. He was tired. It was dusk. The scarlet filled his room again. He rested his back against the wall, exhausted. Closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Slept forevermore, only to wake up with his head on her lap. Only to wake up on the other side where she was waiting for him…

A Raven’s Whisper

Another one came in today. This time, a young little girl. She was dressed up in her best white gown with a flower in her hand. A scarlet red locket, which shone light into my eyes, lay upon her tender bosom. Oh how beautiful it looked against her pale skin. Her eyes were closed like all the others who sleep beneath my tree, yet she seemed to be looking at me. Funny how the ones who sleep in white always stare at me and the ones with their eyes wide open can never see me.

I call them the sleepers. They are the only ones who seem to smile. All the others, dressed in black seem to be crying. Why? I do not understand. This girl was of extraordinary beauty. A tender white face crowned with flowing black hair. Pale lips and closed eyes without a pain in the world. Without fear. Without care. I think she was happy. Was she not?

This sleeper’s nest seemed more ostentatious than some of the others’. The wood seemed to glow with the gold inlaid in it and the other people seemed better dressed; although still black. A funny man with a book in his hand was mumbling something in a deep voice. I do not understand. I call these the mumblers.

Every time there is a new mumbler wearing different clothes doing different funny things with the sleepers in their nests. Does the girl really care? Do any of the sleepers care? Yet I see these mumblers squabble amongst each other. I assume it is about who’s mumbling is better. Do the sleepers care? I do not understand.

All the other people are my favourite to watch. Some of them crying, some with solemn looks on their faces. They put flowers in her nest. But dead flowers. I do not like the dead flowers. They make me sad. Some decorate the flowers in funny ways. I find it morbid. Her face is so beautiful but it is surrounded by dead flowers. I do not understand.

The people all have tears in their eyes, but none of them are truly sad. This is a funny thing I noticed. The more the number of people, the more the gold, the more the dead flowers, the lesser is the actual sadness in their eyes. Tears fall without purpose. Dismembered without meaning. Then why do they cry? I do not understand.

Like always they put a heavy piece of wood on her wooden nest and slowly lower her into the earthen cradle beneath my tree. They put a few funny rocks with etchings on them over her cradle and soon, slowly but surely they depart. Tomorrow very few will return. The day after even lesser. The flowers on her stone soon dry, but the flowers around grow. I like these flowers. They are alive and come from the sleeper’s dreams. Each of them a memory.

I have them too. Dreams. I wonder what she will dream about tonight. I understand the sleepers. They are uncomplicated. Pure.
The others? Not in the least. In their eyes I see all these feelings I do not understand. Their minds seem clouded forevermore and their tears will forever fall without ever knowing why.

Dusk will fall soon. By morning she will be one with the earth. Another sleeper will come to my tree dressed in pure white, resting in solace, followed by the others with tainted hearts and painless tears.

All the sleepers become one with dust. Then why do the others care? The sleepers don’t care. I do not understand…


What was i running from?

the shards of doubt that cut deep?
or the opiate of ignorance that numbed?

the cloak of despair around me?
or naked icy flames of love?

the crawling shadows in my blood? or
hurtful light in the solace of the dark?

the voices that never went? or
the hope that never stayed?

what was i running from?

the questions that remain unanswered?
or the answers begging not to be known?

the silence of the earthly cradle?
or the cries of wandering souls?

was it the angst of pain?
or the sedation of pleasure?

was my soul in an abyss
or an abyss in my soul?

flickers of madness dance tonight, death seduces
last thoughts flutter in the winds of chaos
neither taking nor giving, neither buried nor living
fear of desolation and the pleasure of it

she held me where i fell, the cold almost inviting
her hands held no weight, gazing into nothing
this was where i belonged, death’s warm embrace
one question remained, why the fuck was i running…

A promise called love

A pair of hands clutching tight,
trembling, soft and young.
Eyes filled with innocent light,
songs of five summers they sung.

While his eyes filled with expression,
telling tales that made her laugh.
Her’s filled with wonder and adoration,
of what he spoke, she got only half.

Yet her hands folded ‘neath her chin,
she listened, listening to him was a delight.
His hands flying, another story to begin,
that he would tell till the morning light.

With blades, where the birch tree stands
carved their names, blood on the ground.
The first cuts on those tender hands,
now, forever their hearts would be bound.

Years fluttered by, leaves in the winds of time,
he grew fonder in her heart, she in his eyes.
Friendship grew into a feeling so sublime,
that his eyes wept pain, when her’s cried.

Spend countless nights ‘neath the birch,
holding each other’s hand so tight.
Through their hearts, love did surge,
became each other’s in the cold twilight.

When he looked into her deep brown eyes,
she felt warmth spreading through her soul,
He kissed her ‘neath the dying skies,
pulled her closer, away from pain and cold.

When she held his hand, fingers locked,
he felt he belonged to her and her alone.
Hands held, through the night they talked,
falling deeper in love, their destiny unknown.

The dagger of time split the one in two,
darkened hollows where cold winds blew.
Scarring hearts, eyes could cry no more,
crown of thorns of solitude they wore.

Without the other, both adorned cloaks,
flames died in rain of tears, only smoke.
Merry on the surface, empty down below.
not the white rose, but only its black shadow.

With loneliness in their hollow eyes,
from different paths, they reached the birch.
In a moment they forgot all the pain and lies,
In tears of love their hearts submerged.

Holding each others weathered hands,
tears in their arms they smothered.
Made delicate love on the soft sands,
made a promise to never leave the other.

Wrinkled hands, only skin and bones,
Years later, still clutching, afraid to let go.
weary and tired eyes, afraid to atone,
looked at the other, lovingly, forevermore.

One last time they went to the tree, together,
sat under it, in the shadows of the dying sun.
One last time, passionately kissed each other,
This battle ‘gainst misery they had finally won.

She still goes to the tree every night,
only his memories left till the morning light.
The time when she first looked into his eyes,
feels the love that ever died, starts to cry.

Runs her fingers down their names,
these carvings have outlived the flames,
That burnt the tree, to force them apart.
a promise held strong, bound their hearts.

The Last Requiem

My dirge will echo through the woods
Morning lingers in the trees
Shadows shall consume these notes
Requiems shall stifle my silent screams

My sun is setting into mists of the ocean
The murmur of the trees rings loud and clear
Final notes of mine I can’t set in motion
Unfinished this song I’m afraid, death I do not fear

One last day I beg for, one last winter I ask
Thousand voices scream inside, a face, a thousand masks
Let me finish this piece, then I’ll step into the shades
Compose this silent Symphony, and into the shadows I’ll fade

The bird of death pecks away at my glass pane
By the window I sit, frantic, outside it sits in pouring rain
Frantic to write the last few notes, before it is in vain
The voices inside shouting, mind numbing with pain

These sounds buried deep inside, secret I cannot keep
Have to spill them out on paper, they cannot die with me
Tunes so forlorn, notes so numbing, even death will weep
The bird shatters the window, the voices finally set free

The notes shall resound, in (y)ears to come
In garden of posterity this song is hummed
This tune shall well outlive my bones
My last requiem echoes over silent stones

written by asphodelsoul and me


The morning was bleak and cold. The first few breaths of the new born spring had started to awaken the land from its slumber. Tendrils of green were now visible perforating the thin veil of white that crowned the land. Wherever the lazy sunlight had kissed the land, now there were small patches of color midst the grim white. A pine tree, that had shed its cloak of snow, now stood majestic and green in the still and desolate landscape.

Wait. It wasn’t all too silent. No, some sound was emanating from the tree.

Two distinct yet similar sounds resounded through its branches. The sounds whispered new life. Two tiny chicks chirped in their rudimentary nest. Settled midst the broken egg shells and the feathers of a mother, whose calls would never be heard again, the two brothers waited in the cold, huddling together to find warmth. Though the worst of the winter had passed, the cold was still severe enough to stop their tiny hearts. In the nest was another chick, who had been claimed by the cold, and now lay there motionless, eyes unseeing into the distance, skin turned pale and blue in the merciless grasp of the winter, feathers wilted away, its neck bent at an angle that seemed inappropriate for the little chick.

The two brothers chirped away, calling to their mother for food, but their cries faded away into the wind just as the mother had faded away into the unknown.

Days lapsed. The little chicks couldn’t bear the pangs of starvation any longer; and as the crude primordial instinct for survival dominated all others, the chicks fed on the carcass of their brother. They fed on the gruesome decaying carcass for days, nibbling off a bit of the bloody mess each time, not recognizing that the creature whose blood now marred their beaks had in fact been in the same nest as the other two and been laid by the same mother. The only difference was that fate chose him, and not one of the other two, to become one with death.

Soon they become accustomed to the taste of the flesh of their brethren. They survived the days because of their ill starred brother. Soon they grew up to be fine young birds, from feeble curled talons they grew. Brothers forever, they thought they would be.

The dice of fate rolled once again and in a stormy summer night, the two were torn from one another, as their branch snapped in the gales. They were torn apart, send whirling through the night to different lands. Separated from their only companions. Solitude without respite. Loneliness beyond compare.

Each yearned for his brother, and they both gazed into the horizon at dusk hoping that the other would return. Each waiting to hear a certain song. The song of the other’s calls. The song that reeked belonging. Each wanted the other, to find a sense of respite from the despondency they felt inside.

Months dissolved into years and neither of them found the other. The longing had now become an absolute need. Each was frantic to find the other. They flew over vast expanses, through all weathers, never ceasing the search. It had reduced them to feathers and bones, not eating or resting properly because of the madness that gripped them now.

They ate whatever little they could find, rested only when fatigue churned their minds into oblivion. But neither stopped searching. All the bloodied wounds would fade. All the pain would end. Only if each found where his brother was.

One was always stronger than the other. Right from the start. Always superior. Though both were equally broken and tired, one had more power to resist giving up than the other. His talons were sharper, muscles more powerful, beak more poised to tear flesh from bone. Yet both were nearing death. Age had taken its toll on them. They had almost lost their eyesight. The cold was fiercer against their bones now. The wind more numbing than it had ever been. Bones and thoughts had turned old now. Their feathers burned, cold and lost.

The stronger one now flew drearily over the plains with leaden wings and an anguished heart. The sun failed to warm his blood now. He knew his end was near. Soon the bird of death would come and fly him to the blackest nest of all. There he would rest for evermore.

His feeble stomach growled with hunger. He realized then that he had last eaten four days ago and that too just a few bugs. Not enough to give him the energy he required for the rest of his search. But he knew he couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop searching. He had to find something to eat before he fainted with fatigue.

He flew for a few more hours, his fragile frame aching with every lap of wings. It was almost as if every beat of his bleeding heart was a punishment filled with nothing but hurt and desperation. Later he finally found something that he could eat. A small bird was flying towards the south. It looked ill and tired. A potential target. His eyesight was failing him but he could hazily make out that it was a small bird, probably a chick or an old bird. He did not know who the bird was or even what bird it was.

But he again felt the sensation he had felt all those years ago in the cold nest on that wintry night. The feeling of despair overwhelming the senses and the crude hunger of survival breaking through. Though he never ate other birds, he couldn’t bear it any longer. For surviving and continuing his desperate search for his brother he had to snub out the candle of the little bird.

The strong talons tore at the flesh of the helpless bird, tearing away skin from the feathered mass. Blood splattered on the ground and he sat down to consume his kill. The little bird did not cry out even once or resist. Life was torn out of him before he could react.

As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, casting crimson over the landscape, the strong bird ate his fill. He was no stranger to the taste of his brethren. The blood reminded him of the night when he and his brother had survived against all odds, taking life from the wings of death. Suddenly he felt immense misery. The thought brought back the feeling of loneliness and desperation without his brother. He needed to find his brother at any cost. He took another bite while he pondered. A new resolute filled his heart. The next morning he would do all he could to find his brother. The next morning he felt that they would be reunited once more.

He felt that next morning his brother would fly over the horizon, towards him, and all the years of separation would dissolve into a sense of belonging and love. He was convinced that this would be the day when fate finally blessed them both. He knew that it would happen. It surely would.

So he sat above the unfinished meal, to wait for the next morning to come and free him finally of his misery.
Above that carcass, he waited for the dawn to come. He sat to wait.
Above his brother’s corpse, he sat…to wait. 

These Eyes Cry No More

Time has frozen around me,
I cannot feel, cannot see,
Feel like jumping off this ledge,
Hovering somewhere near the edge.

I can’t afford to reveal,
This loneliness that i feel,
Have to carry on this tragedy,
At least for those who look up to me.

Thought hurt and blood are the same,
Gave up to these demons i cannot tame,
Let the blood drip down from me,
Countless scars have marred this body.

Only then did i realize,
Dry doesn’t mean blue skies,
I can bleed my heart away,
But this pain will always stay.

The blades have turned blunt and rusted long ago,
These smiling scars will be torn open no more.

Spent many nights sleepless,
All alone on the floor in distress,
Other nights dreams have awakened,
Guilty, in solitude, forgotten, forsaken.

Every time I stand in the crowd,
I fade away into the background,
A distant blot of grey against the dying sun,
A scrap of garbage marring the horizon.

Have cried enough for a lifetime,
Can no more call anything mine,
Trying to drown sorrow in a puddle of tears,
Not realizing I’m living the worst of my fears.

I was drowning myself in the puddle,
And the pain surfaced all of a sudden,
While i sink to the bottom of this void,
The only hope to swim is soon destroyed.

These rivers run dry now, and this heart is stone,
My soul drowned in tears, as these eyes cry no more…

Far Above…

Far above this earthly sphere,
Rest the mighty ones,
Warmed by the fires of life,
By a countless suns.

While our blood freezes still,
In the frigid nights,
Midst the biting winds of death,
Look for the saving light.

Never will death or decay,
Touch their blithe souls,
Never feel the pain of loss,
The misery of this world.

We will perish with the winds,
Turned to dust and ash,
Be stripped of all we loved,
Take this lonely path.

Upon the warm bed of stars,
They dream without a care,
Sleep in chambers of heaven,
Slumber without a fear.

Man haunted by his dreams,
Scared of his own shadow,
Frequented by these visions,
Nightmares that never go.

Fruits from ever-blooming groves,
Water from streams of Eden,
Vault of heaven at their feet,
Spring remains the only season.

We know the pain of hunger,
Of throats being choked dry,
Of lungs filled with sorrow,
Of an emptiness inside.

Might of thunder in blazing eyes,
The sacred and divine,
Strength of universe in their grasp,
The timeless and sublime.

Plagued by weakness and disease,
The puny and powerless,
Afraid of moving out alone,
Us fragile and helpless.

No relief will ever come from above,
Forgotten ghosts forever astray,
No response from the other realm,
Life will suffer and fade away.

Drifting through this life
walk this somber road alone,
Stumbling in dark,
No one cares on heaven’s throne.