Night Vision

We were merely two wolves
Carrying embankments in our howling chests
Falling for our moons, in reflections of disturbed ponds
Acquaintances we were, of parallel woods
Not much thought spared
Other than the occasional, the customary
We were merely two wolves
Streaking through the wilderness
Within and without
Barely touching borders
Barely touching
Each other
And now nights roll out, carpets of moss to tread on
I hear you, I hear us
Soft padded thuds, footsteps or simply what we feel?
We howl, not echoing each other
For we let out the sorrows clawing our subdued eyes
Can I rest my tired head against your shoulder?
Guarding these walls has drained me
The reminders ache in the form of thorns embedded
Can I rest my head against yours?
It’s a quiet place of peace
Where our borders merge
A silent breathing space of no-meaning
Yet as we breathe us in, I wonder
When did darkness become a silhouette
Of warmth?


Curling Flames

Hallways warm with curling flames
Licking the wind upward
Newborn dreams
We’ve been veterans in these riots of anticipations
Architects of entire cities built with pages of planners
Months, years, decades laid out
The manicured terraces that didn’t bear fruit
These hallways reek of petrichor, the human kind
Soft earth of young hearts damp with showers of knowledge
Fountain of youth, was always probably the newborn dreams
Still locked in place with these bone-aching hopes
Immortalized in these moments, unscathed
It showers me with a renewed vigour
A drizzle where torrential beasts spawned curling flames into wildfires
Is it possible, the afterlife after being defeated
Outstretching its bandaged arms towards me?
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
There is more to being alive than being a clockwork veteran
Homeward bound now to a wasteland of ash and carrion trees
To start again a wildfire but of cosmic proportions
Once these curling leaves have raged into roaring beasts again

Phantom Pirate

The cavity in my chest is too familiar an ache
If hollows were literal
I would reach into the darkness
Let it seize my wrist with an invitation
To the realms I carry within
The dark worlds and the standby worlds
Swirling and heaving
Tendrils of my thoughts
Sucking the vicinity, my surroundings, into itself
It feels so pretentious and repetitive
Like these bones, this blood, these organs doing their thing
Have all memorized the routes of emotions I sail through
As if there are no new maps
No new ships with glorious sails snapping in the wind
No new pirate to mould myself into
And pillage through new lands and territories
The gaping abyss sighs, rhythmic booms echoing through my lonesome corridors of thought
Imaginary rapiers and daggers clanging at my hip
I pick a pinch of the swirling darkness from my chest
Setting the wisp on an eye I gasp at the action
Perhaps this is the price to pay
For new worlds and naval corridors to sail through
Perhaps, if I do not stop seeing what I was made to see
I’ll never find what I wish to find
The wisdom I’ve acquired may expire or sink
An eye patched for a vision
The hull spelling my name will tear through this chest, this abyss
Through my entire being if it must
It must taste the wind waiting to guide its bulk through unknown waters
It must groan under my reckless, starving captainship
It must stay alive
It must sail and strive
Through storms and wreckage
Through nights without lighthouses
It must come face to face with sunken legends of old
And crash through waves writhing and writing lores of its own


There is a blanket of darkness
The stars have veiled their luminescence
This is our hold over the universe
There is a blanket of darkness
Our passions are naked underneath
Shall I make love to you, my love?
My words a wild caress undressing your thoughts
It’s a do till you die, a sigh till you cry
I’ll make you bleed cobalt blue
With my lips as I kiss
The parting through which
Countless affections you utter
In this velvet blackness where we stumble
And I am awakened when you stutter
Should I show you, my love?
The parts of me etched in onyx
Writhing lamentations of an undead romance
I’d ask you to be my mosque, to be my church
But no, no
Be my burial ground
Bury your all in me and when death does us part
I’ll be lowered into your soft earth
Going to sleep, cradled
In your arms
So shall I make love to you, my love?
A stroke here of neon and one there of pastel
Till dawn is over shock and amazement
To shine its first on our tangled existence
So look, my love, behold our magnificence
There’s a blanket of darkness
So much of us naked underneath
Rampant and raw, a rumble of hidden constellations
Buried between the spaces
Unable to be told apart, as yours or mine
Throw back your head
There are places of you that haven’t felt me yet
The curve of your neck
Is inviting my verses to take it in
So, shh, my love
We’re just getting started

Marked by Death

She was five when it first happened
It tore through the house like a colossal shard of steel
A dull thud and crack of skull echoed a moment later
Temporarily erasing the memory of her scream

It was recalled by none not even in the  slightest
Well, a child she was and children wailed all the time
Dots remained unconnected
And the mark in her fate waited silently to shine

She was eight when she screamed again
And news from distant lands reached them after days
Recalling and horrified, an elder in the family voiced suspicion
And she found herself under scrutiny, terror in everyone’s gaze

The events that trailed her after
Saw her locked in a cellar under a shed
She screamed and screamed herself raw
Tearing at her flesh till it bled

Night after night she hummed herself to sleep
Time warped not into dark and light but sounds of birds and the wild
Not knowing how and why she screamed sometimes
Chilling herself and the rats, till her  voice faded and died

And they heard her, they felt her, The Sheez
From across the valley, the sea, and the mountain range
“Sister”, they whispered, sending the swift and the ravens
To locate rumours and follow anything strange

Meanwhile saints and shamans were ushered in to the cellar

Each that came close to see her in their flickering candlelight
Backed away wide-eyed shaking his so-called wise head
In the passing years she had paled, and her eyes had greyed
And she could smell it on them, they reeked of fear and dread

Her family refused to look or even  glance at her
She was still just a child that needed love and care
Whenever they came down, in pairs with provisions
She pinned them with an unforgiving stare

One time unaware of whether it was day or night
She wove her frail hair, back against the damp wall
And then it happened, she screamed but not alone
She heard the howl and every inch of her skin crawled

They came for her weeks after her thirteenth birthday
Carriages drawn by horses as if from a war depiction on a tapestry
Reined by the veiled Sheez they stopped in front of the estate
How dare they disrespect their heraldry, lock one of their decree?!

They came for her, she heard the hooves echo
The door to the shed crashed overhead and she let out a cry
They came for her, gentle arms and gentle voices
And that day she realized, in there she wasn’t doomed to die

Bones aching and daylight hurting
Onto one of the carriages they helped her climb
For a moment all her scars of flesh and mind
Melted away and all she felt was sublime

Ravens flew overhead and wolves guarded their sides
With her weakened vision she watched the approaching trees
Away from the home she’d known, towards where she’d always belonged
The court of the much feared, and esteemed, banshees.

Bards and Storytellers of Old

Oh, the bards and storytellers of old!
Oh, the minstrels and troupes painted gold!

Spilling narrations of gallantry and heroic swordplay,
That make many a maiden clutch her chest and weep!
Oh the harps, lutes, and lyres that behind the hedges play,
As the Crown Prince and his mistress, make love by the creek!

Ah! There is no boundary these tellers won’t climb,
No royal garden or orchard they wouldn’t trespass,
Of mulled court gossip they’d knock over every hive,
Wiping their scandal soiled shoes on royally trimmed grass.

Jesting and imitating courtiers too lowly born for higher ones to care,
Performers in cheap silk, and shiny attire, sway about grand halls,
Mindful of lustful looks exchanged between those that not wed but a bed share,
The coy smiles and lashes that beguile, while pretending to be enthralled.

Oh, the serenaders and musicians of centuries now dust,
Travelling by highways, either robbing or getting robbed,
Knitting folklore and castle tales by firelight and attentive trust,
Not a soul that heard the gripping melodies interrupted the dramatic or stopped.

Such are the legacies of bards and storytellers of old,
Sometimes mere trinket sellers and wanderers in search of home,
Sometimes spying and assassinating for kings and gold,
And yet empires later, their stories and harmonies in the dark of night roam.

Oh, the bards and storytellers of old,
Oh, the bards and storytellers of old . . .

Of Myths and Legends

Dragons tearing at crimson skies
Smoke and blood and death disguised
Clangs of armour and shields dented
Sweat and gore and defeat scented

Keeps on fire and forts unmanned
Spears and swords spearing flesh unarmed
Beating of wings deafening crowds
Chaos unleashed and cries that drown

Piercing arrows and hides torn
Scales dripping and wings shorn
Unclaimed through clamour spiralling down
From clawing talons to feral hounds

Many a hero dies amidst such clangour
Some buried unsung and without glamour
Legends and myths seek these battles
Taming tales from truth that rattles

And once again through crimson skies
Tumble down valiants with resounding cries
Wingbeats and reptilian screeches follow
To be reborn in retellings on the morrow


24-08-2011, 01:48 am



Attempting to conjure some flamboyant memories,
I fail, ending up with charred debris.
For every time that I have smiled, I’m being punished,
‘Twas the way my heart perished.
Resembling fallen petals of a rose,
Are my tears; bloody, with every crystalline singing a prose.

Again what shines through my night,
Trickles down my tear-stained cheek”
What held me strong,
Is now holding me weak;
Recollecting bright summers,
And singing by the creek.

Oh the silver halo,
Oh how I miss,
To see the moon again,
Is all I wish.

In the corner of the night, where I cower,
Hoping would bloom a warm-lighted flower,
Flashes back what once was my life,
Before it was hit with grief and strife –

Dark silhouettes moving against the blinding light;
I see, feeling sparks in a shower,
They who were my friends,
My eternal strength and immortal power,
To writ the dark magic, called love against fear,
Charming atrocities alighted and sheer.

I am broken in fright,
Frigid have gone my vision and sight,
A fallen, broken angel, I rest as, here in pain,
Writhing, shivering, all in vain.




Something I wrote two years ago.

– Praty


Let my tears and wounds dry to dust

Let the scars fade if they must

Let the pain ebb away slow and painfully

Let me immerse in my darkness ruefully


Allow me to be the person I was destined to be

Allow me to stray not but only to be me

Allow me to resurface into light from oblivion

Allow me to break free from a cocoon of thorns




Who am I telling this to, some redeemer, some muse?

Who’s there to save me from unearned rues?

Who’s there to shield me from fate’s scalding wrath?

Who’s there to guide me through untrodden paths?


“No one” a voice I couldn’t hear spat voraciously

“No one” and the ravenous silence consumed me

“No one” except the menacing voices in my turbulent head

“No one” ’cause if I don’t shut them and move on, I’ll be dead.