THIS MOMENT..

on the horizon of a fading sunset
this moment i cannot explain
like melted ice i cannot contain
this moment..
that i thought about you..
i wished and introspected..
that this wistful thinking would last.
that this moment would linger on...
birds of paradise flew by..
their arches containing faded sunlight..
my wistful thinking contains some foolish magic..
my face glows in some cold warmth..
of fading sunlight.
a golden glow which never was of my own..
some fragment of peace i never felt..
something lost, yet never found.
this moment is a calm i cannot explain..
the rugged sand wears off now
only diamonds now remain.
about a time from this moment
this moment will be gone.
but i still live and try pretend..
that this moment would linger on.
and i will wait to find...
if this will last forever..
and i will pay no mind..
it cannot, it just cant and..
its not suposed to..
not supposed to linger on.
so much wasted into the afternoon,
so much lost in the after tune.,
so much found in the afterglow.
yet i turn inside out at your gaze
and now let me explain..
that i will wait to find..
if this will last forever.
like this sunset i cannot stop from fading..
like the melting ice i cannot contain.
like the time i cannot hold onto .
i still would not let go of..
this moment i cannot contain.
my wistful thinking still imagines..
that this moment would linger on.
if you would but give me a chance.
if you would but give me a promise.
that you would wait..
yet time would stop at no persuasion.
maybe you should let go if you cannot hold on to.
and let me hold on ...
if you cannot hold on to..
or if your hands are course, tired and bleeding..
of relentless long waits of anxiousness
let me hold on now.
because i will wait to find..
if this will last forever.
and i will pay no mind..
never worry about the rain or the tide..
or even the melting snow which i cannot contain..
or even the arched pelicans of the setting sun..
or even the next sunset which would never be the same again..
or even the time which my grip cannot withstand..
and i will waste no time..
no time to hold onto this moment..
and keep it lingering on for you..
forever.
-ansh nivesatyan
12/12/2010

some messages are too blank and meaningfull in their simplicity i geus...

RUINS...

Ruins of decadence disadvantaged behind a wall of my ulterior effrontery form…
A voice deep as the hollows of a sepia ray….
of dark fading evening light…
Echoes of the eternal flames of the worlds aching heart….
its heart bleeding its blood…
in forms relentless and defying…even to the oceans…
in their most ferocious forms in the floods…
the Mephistophelian smile of an amateurish hearth…
in search for the sages of the twilight of salvation….
The inevitable maliciousness of the siren of temptation
Gazing deep…Into my eyes…
Blinded for the briefness as still as for a second…
how meretricious
I turn my sights away….
How could I ever..?
gaze into the depths of the dark ocean …
from whose blackness I doubt…
I shall ever recover…
passing by the mirror beside a tainted glass at a subway…
I gaze into my own eyes…
The identity of a lost soul among a million others….
lost in ways countless to the imagination….
Eyes as deep and deceptive…
as the smoke that seeps down my cavity of inspiration…
and ofcourse …a heart …
That heart that bleeds…
almost a slow continuous unfeeling death,…
The heart that will seize to beat one day…
without any preconceived notice ….
That will beat faster when I’m in ecstasy…
and even harder when I am in grief….
Those disgraced, destitute, insulted and blinding emotions…
blamed for every grief that ever confronted humanity…
My heart harbors those banished souls…
All the emotions that gave reality to dreams…
That gave meanings to deeds…
That ever gave any existence to the truth in love…
That made me look unto myself and realize…
This heart…. Is not my own to keep….
Looking up at the autumn leaves of the maple trees…
Feeling the wind seeping through the crowd…
of hedonistic personalities lost in perspirations for yet..…
a little more hedonism….
even the great magnanimous soul of Satan…
is capable of humanity greater and intense in realization…
to know that he is the holy incarnation of evil…
in all its reality… in all of its uniformity…and in all of its oneness…
with so many as mortals to replace him…
ohh how pertinacious of him to keep his place…
even in realities discomfiture…
My heart bleeds a little further… skips a beats few more…
The nimble siren passes a smile….
as sagacious as the capricious west winds of the north….
Her vanity misunderstanding my reality…
of a penurious soul with no heed to spend…
My lost eyes stare back at me through the mirror…
“who are you?” … confused yet elated…
they demand a question unanswerable even to my generators…
The siren lurks about teasing with effrontery boldness…
Her skin as golden as the veining sunshine of October…
pleasant yet bright…
“ I do not know”…. I answer breaking apart the cords of my restrained emotions…
One in a million….yet lost in all the millions …lost in their own dreams and fantasys..,
Whose fantasy is it that I am living?...mine?
The eyes crumble in doubt and confusion…..
greater than they could ever emulate through their seductive aura…
The siren turns away in envy unbearable…
It appeared to her in the distance…
Some seductions are stronger….
Even strongr than the golden skin of the sun’s valour…..or the smell of the spring lavenders,,..
Some seductions….
Live within a soul….
Some seductions are real…..
And the real seductions forget to set like the sun…
forget to wither like lavender,…
forget to pass by like the merry month of may…
impossible to see or feel or even acknowledge..
Yet the seductions are real….
As real as the malicious magnanimous and ruthless sense of self of satan
Somber truths surfing below….
the superficiality of the human mind….
The sages of twilight living below..
a skin refusing to feel its own pulse…
But the truth that lingers below…
Is more ferocious…
than the fires of hell…
the siren turns away…. Burns her pride… her vanity…
her hair…her golden skin… her smell fades…. She disappears….
The mortal heart beats yet another beat…
out of all the million that it already has….
Knowing yet one day out of all the million..
there will be one which shall be but the last….
“who are you?”
The eyes stare back.,,, still blank.. yet knowing…
I smile back….unable to answer…. Yet knowing…..

flashes....

Waves of emancipation entangled in a string of desires…
I lay here all alone …unscathed and unvented…
Only a few desires breath within my relinquished veins…
My skin is as blue as the midnight chasms of a poets dream…
Never in my life did I desire the abandonment that I am witness to… in these forgotten forests…
Never moving and not even feeling my own breath…
I gaze up at the unending space of the eternal heavens…
Broken flowers surround me…
crushed roses encapsulate the air …
The stars follow a trail to the horizon…
Pearl drops of fatigue and melancholy sweep down my eyes…
I feel the burn of the septic human salt seep down my lips…
I feel alone and dismembered,
I have never felt like this before…
Yet I do not feel the loneliness,,,
lost ………
Reality discongifured…. My vision blurred and unable to recognize my sight,,,
My mind – not justifying the desire to live…
Fragments of my life lay scattered around me….
A few pieces of a dozen shards of broken glass…
My heart beats a final beat….
I cannot breath now..
Vision becomes dimmer…
My veins communicate an eternal peaceful darkness… to my remaining consciousness,,,
I am breathing….
Not to live… but to remember
To recapitulate...
One last final time…
This small inadequate, inconsequential and insane little thing…
That we call life…
Desires flicker out in a matter of moments…
A feeling of letting go encapsulates ….
My hands become numb, numb, and number,,,,
My eyes unable to blink any longer…
All I can see is the vast spasm of the dark melodic and monolithic sky…
Embedded with stars…. Random in arrangement….
The blue diamond studded vision now fades slowly…
I do not blink…
I cannot blink…
It is not my right to blink...
The sound of inevitability calling far off… .
It is time to let go ,…
I know,,, I realize… and I feel….
A tear rolls down my cheeks….
Almost as involuntary as the emotions I couldn’t feel any longer….
Pictures flash before my eyes within the darkning haze that enclosed my fading vision…
My first toy….
A green colored rocket….
Mom’s warmth when in bed….
A moment of serenity by the river ganga…in grandfathers company…
An accident…
The first time I saw ……
.the most special person in my life…
When my heart throbbed and skipped a beat…
When my ink fell dry of words…
as I wrote the three words for the first time…
tears,…
laughter…
a true friend appears and smiles,,,,
mom again,,,, smiling…holding…never letting go,,,
dad,,,..out on a walk between never ending hills of seclusion…
dad …..smiling again while watching a sunset…
the first experience of love…
a destitute… with no clothes to wear….
on a December night….
Finally …
Mom again…….
“Goodnight ...”
Her sweet voice…..
The sheath of darkness grows denser…
The cold becomes deeper and stronger…
The senses become number,,,..
A last tear rolls down my eyes,,,
As my eyes fall into a dry glaze of culmination…
Slowly…
Softly…
Still dreaming…
Still watching the sky flicker out peacefully….
A final smile graces my forgotten face…
And I… let go….

HEEDING SILENCE...OF THOSE WASTEFULL DAYS...

When people are 14,15 or 16 years of age. They start searching for strange concepts. They start searching indirectly of what would appeal to them downright and that which would show them their true identity, they like to delve into issues that they can relate with and they always want to believe that whatever they believe in is right anyway. For some of them, what appeals more is television, movies and sometimes the movie stars doing matrix style stunts on TV. So they end up becoming movie buffs. For others the satisfaction comes in trying new things, the excitement is enough but the curiosity can be fatal leading to life skidding out of control at a critical time. For some, it’s all about books, studying, scoring good grades and doing what their parents think is best for them. others start believing that life is all about love and that your coolness quotient is determined by the number of boyfriends or girlfriends you are able to switch to. Cool indeed.
Then there were people like me around the corner. People Who liked to stay cooped up in their rooms for hours as long as possible while their classmates were busy splurging on clothes and running after other boys and girls. Not that I didn’t have a crush, after the st.joseph fate I did. Staying in my room the whole time after school was what I thought was best for me and suited for me. Sometimes I thought that if I was not under the obligation of going to school or for coming out of the room for food or other such necessities and if all my necessities would be confined within the boundaries of my room then I could happily live my entire life inside that small wood plank layered room of mine having a computer, a music system, a bed and just lots of shelves for books and cassettes without any desire to see the world outside at all. How unambitious…. I questioned myself. There were two places where I would be. School or my room and there was no other place in between. So what did I do all the time in my room ?.... no I was not studying my course books preparing for iit.


I had developed an overpowering penchant for western music, creative writing, western biography’s, Keanu reeves, and various philosophical books. Ever seen anybody read philosophy at 14? It’s odd and abnormal. I remember watching a documentary about the sex pistols. Hmm……. They messed up their lives big time over drugs and rock and roll. The documentary featured the lead singer’s mother giving an interview and crying on t.v. regretting why she never stopped him when he had started it many years ago in the first place. Hmm… how much did the documentary producers actually give her after the documentary release?... how much percentage of the profit did she actually get?...i reflected. ofcourse being the mother of a dead rock icon was good money already. But if she never stopped him in the first place for doing drugs until he was dead and she could come and shed some tears on national television gave way to my rising suspicions that may be she never tried to pull him out of the addiction in the first place or maybe she actually was the one who pushed him into it….of all the pressure of being rich and famous…. Being rich, famous, and sexy can have the gravest consequences in the real world. For there are way too many people who show you the wrong way then people who actually wait a while to show you the right way.
She said that She thought it was a passing phase of depression and that he would someday get over it. She thought that the sudden fame and the roving eyes of people on him had just made him a little uncomfortable. But he never did get out of it until he had completely lost it. And one night on a December night a legend came to a brief ending. An ending that was completely unjustified for a living rock icon. He died due to drug overdose. Simply “passed away…”… that too in sleep….without uttering a word to anyone. For the overdose was of excessive sleeping pills. Unbelievable.
Another documentary was about the hippie revolution in the 70’s. no kid in class watched documentaries as much as I did or even enjoyed it as much as I did. They seemed to me expressions of real art…. “moving art” I’d call it. Reality shown in a touching way that was plainly artistic and ambivalent in nature, Showing dark as dark and light as light. Well, literally. Khushboo’s dad who worked as a chief journalist in a local newspaper supplied us with huge stacks of national geographic documentaries…a treasure to show to your own kids someday when you’re all grown up.
So the hippies back then in the seventies depended on substance use and abuse to feel closer to god and to get downright spiritual in a matter of seconds rather than through meditation or Indian yoga practices which apparently took years to give the same results. The concept of taking in banned drugs to get spiritual or to feel spiritual. Amphetamine, hush, dope, heroin, cocaine…so many of them….so intoxicating….and the thought of being intoxicated, drained and emaciated…was so fascinating. What did it give them really?…other than the temporary high and the feeling of invincibility? Well you didn’t get spiritual that was one thing for sure but you did get AIDS, HIV, hepatitis B, and many more transmittable diseases and that’s what really took you very dangerously close to GOD….so close that you just had to go to him and you had no choice after that and you could take no step backwards if you changed your mind 
The first time I was introduced to western music was by an uncle. He gave a cassette containing a compilation of then greatest hits. There were songs by cher….”do you believe in life after love”… phill Collins, whitney Houston,… a newly emerging Britney spears and many more. I still have that cassette. “max 5” was the title.
There’s something about a depressive phase in your life that makes you wonder. It fills you with such unconcerned melancholy internally that sometimes you want to celebrate your sadness almost literally. Sad songs and rock songs sometimes give a picture into self mutilation. There’s a sparse pleasure in feeling depressed, it’s an intriguing kind of raking happiness. You gain a sense of freedom and non belief. I remember telling myself over and over again… “ I don’t care….who cares?...not you, not me,, not the freaking world…let’s just go drown ourselves somewhere so no one will ever know…”.
In such times the songs of choice would be the definitive not very well known rock bands that cried in anger and indignation over some loss or the other and made you cry with them. I came into the realms of oasis, deep purple, aerosmith, creed, death cab for cutie…. Some were English bands you had never heard of and whom Indian people were particularly not very big fans. But these artists had a thing for pain and self mutilation. All their songs celebrated loss, death, internal havoc, the desire to commit suicide, negativity and hell were portrayed as emancipation, and literally all had a history of drug abuse. The concept of death was particularly most welcomed. What was it with western artists reeling into drug abuse? that they just could not sing about anything positive or enchanting but they always reflected on their sad lives, their abused childhoods or the insults that the world had hurled at them and why they hated the world so much that they kept crying out loud in one of their songs….”burn me and burn my ashes to such intensity… boil my blood, … feed my bones to your neighborhood dogs….oh you think you can hurt me now?...not when you’re done with me…not when I’m dead and gone…not when I’m no more…not when the gates of heaven smile upon my emaciated face…not when I leave in a pool of my own blood under a shower blade….you think I give a damn about your selfish pleasures?... burn me instead I say…burn me and flick my ashes..”… that was deep purple………..really deep…..and really purple…more like black almost.
Whatever it was, and however insipid to most people it might appear. I related to the mirth, sarcasm and hatred. I guess that’s why people listened to songs such as these. it wasn’t because these songs were melodious at all but It was because they could relate themselves with the pain and rage that was being expressed. They could literally feel the ripping sensation on their skins when the singer screamed about heaving insults of some kinds and turning them into a symphony. Their hearts cried and their eyes could cry as well when the singer howled in agony. But this was art after all… it took effort as well….it took hard work as well…it took talent, effort, and creativity to be able to create the kind of music that could push people into sadness with you…. And I related to it as well… and at a depressed phase of life I remember sitting in my room spending all of my time in a pensive mood,,. writing in a secret diary about my feelings, reading philosophy, and listening to sad rock songs of drug addicted artists…. And sometimes while listening to such songs I reflected on my own sad little life which had not a speck of peace or sensibility about it and shed a few tears in silence. Was there anything at all amidst this madness that actually makes any sense at all?

“havoc and chaos everywhere.” I reflected. As if standing on the outskirts of a war field after the war had ended, surrounded by the bloodied bodies of dead innocent soldiers, someone’s arm missing, somebody’s leg missing, somebody’s body rotting in the sun with nobody to cover the unrecognizable face…. the smell of blood flooding the air in such a thick haze that you felt choked to your lungs and the remains of tanks and machines scattered around with the sky emanating in to a fiery red chasm like coloration of the darkening sunset….
this was how I viewed my life. Only remains of some outdated, life taking war which left nothing but open wounds to course at……..
The doors were always kept shut. For there was no use in crying in front of the world, and if I did cry before my father there was a faint recognition of the fact that he’d be too drunk to even notice or too incoherent to ask why I had been crying and what it was that i found brutally imperfect or wrong with my life.
Or even if he did know would he still bother enough to want to change things for me? I didn’t think so. Even if someday he did ask. He was too weak a man to accept that he was responsible for the infirmities and the insecurities of my life. That he had made my life miserable with his constant escapades of unfeeling selfishness. That kids at school taunted me that my dad was an alcoholic and that’s why my mom had left me and that I could not turn around and face them or even utter a world of defiance to them. I just remember laying my head down on my desk and doing nothing but pretending that I could not hear a word of what they had been saying about me. That I had been ripped off of my self esteem and that I was an almost friendless isolated child. I was an abnormal child. That I hardly paid attention in class. I could not concentrate. That I had given up on mathematics and thought I couldn’t do it anymore. That I thought I’d probably fail and that I didn’t care about it because again I thought I couldn’t do it and that nobody would help me out even if I would want to do it. That when i went to school I felt a ton of eyes staring at me with questions in their minds that I could not answer. That I wanted to run away from school every single day and that I hated my class teacher who was fat and ugly and very rude to me, the reason for her rudeness I did not know. That I missed my mom really bad and I wanted her to come back to me. That I couldn’t sleep at night when I had nightmares because I knew my mother was not there to hold... That I didn’t want to look at his face anymore in the future now, because he hurt mom so much that she had to leave without a word. That I had now given up the inclination to even speak to him anymore. That I was beginning to give up hopes of trying to live a better life.
Bad childhood, bad years, and bad memories …… I thought. i Wish I could just wipe the slate clean and start all over again. But I couldn’t, and this would be the story left for me to tell the world about my past and growing years. The kind of bad, pathetic stories that nobody really wants to hear about. Everybody has a nice childhood. Who has a bad childhood?. Apparently, lots of people. But how many actually survive it without losing a part of themselves and without getting irreconcilably hurt in the process? Wounds that might never heal, words that you might never forget, images you could never wipe out of your brain, faces you could not forget. Incidences and people who you might forgive, but you might never forget. events of the past that would resurface in front of your eyes again and again as you go about your daily chores. “Its all dead and gone”, you would tell yourself… but then if it is… then why does the thought keep coming back?...the strange fear that history might repeat itself ?
These are the wounds of the years that when inflicted literally engrave themselves into your blood and character so deep that they become a part of your scribbled identity which you have somehow managed to formulate with nobody’s assistance and it is but your fate and hard luck. That this is the way you are and this is the way you have become because of such pain and misery endured. “God help you”. J. krishnamurti literally spoke into my ears
I just wanted to consume myself into the present. Feel the pain and feel the burning sensation and also feel the insults…all the humiliations racing up and down my palm and cutting me up like blades…just as the drug addicted singer screamed out in agony as if somebody nearby was jabbing nails into his body…who cared anyway?. Better to stay cooped up in a room. I thought. There was no hope outside . the world is a gruesome place. Wolves are waiting outside to pounce at me and vultures sit on the beautiful pine trees waiting for me to fall down and scavenge my body so ruthlessly that nobody might ever know that I was ever born into this world.

STRANGE DAYS...

Teenage – a phase of life when every kind of discovery is accompanied with strange bouts of three chief kinds of emotions – fascination, awe, excitement……and of course not forgetting the fourth and most important….. the “ I know it all” syndrome…

Enter 9th grade and I started turning more into a preacher of philosophy, philanthropy and introverted fantasia rather than a student of primary science…
j.krishnamurti and r.k.narayan replaced the original and never read course books of physics, chemistry, maths et all which anyways would rot on my table with a spider weaving a cobweb between one edge of the book and the table which would be dusted off very less occasionally with the poor creature being stunned yet getting another opportunity to start at it again..
sr.dominica’s death was a strange and least expected event and it did effect my stability at school for I was now nowhere to be found nearby the refectory or the school church or even the library ….actually now I avoided the little pass that went around the refectory for fear that I might be unpleasantly reminded of her and would be overwhelmed with sadness for her memory seemed to encapsulate me into a purple haze of monolithic melancholy….
I now spent my hours sitting in the playfield in recess under the shades of the pine and cedar trees …. Their shades encrusted with small pinecones that would once in a while fall on my head and destruct my concentration …or I would be absorbed into my novels … my latest obsession with j.krishnamurti was taking over…..all but a part of some strategy to forget sr.dominica whose essence seemed to be haunting me wherever I went around in the campus…….
But like james bond said in a movie I watched 3 times…..”shaken but not stirred…”.
nobody in my age group or my class had then kind of caliber to go for j.krishnamurti for actually nobody really understood what the dyeing old man was trying to make the world understand…or was the old man himself really sure of what he was trying to say???? The answer I never found… for his philosophies were too wittingly put together to try and decipher.
I found him when I went to an annual book fair that took place in nainital and there was a stall devoted solely to j.krishnamurti…the stallkeeper was a member of the krishnamurti foundation or trust and himself seemed to be living under an influence of some ethereal kind…. Face radiating a certain kind of glow which generally takes over when one is awakened to the realization of some strange idea or purpose…. He himself was dressed in khadi dhoti and a khaddar shirt as if his entire physical being exuded the fact that he had changed his purpose in life….as if he was going back to the gandhian era.
My mother had accompanied me to the outing and given nana’s influence on me regarding spiritual pursuits and my fascination towards drug addicted poets, philosophers’, saints, sages, rock stars and people who suffused into magic…. It seemed to me very absurd as to why normal people actually wanted to spend their one of a kind lives just doing what everyone else did…namely, studying, getting married, having kids, growing old and then dying without anything more eventful to leave behind to the human fascination…….?
I roamed about the fair in a disgustingly bored manner as if I was writhing with the feeling of having been left purposeless….
I came to a sudden halt when I saw j.krishnamurti’s poster…. Ofcourse… born on 11th of may 1945. Krishnamurti was a dynamic force to reckon with in the field of philosophy and thought. None of my classmates had even heard of him….. but then.. how could they not???? This was a legend we were dealing with here… and it was impossible to not be eNtering that stall devoted to him…
I went inside and scanned the huge stacks of endless philosophies surrounding me in search of a title that was downright appealing to me which I could not resist from laying my fingers on…. Yes here again I worked by instinct rather then logic….
My gaze stuck on a navy blue colored cover that had the image of a tree facing a storm…title : “god and his meaning”.
I picked it up immediately for I could not resist it. “the right book calls out to me at the right time”, I used to tell khushbu. I fancied myself as a demulsified writer in the making… after the age of 20 all I could imagine myself doing was sitting in a dimly lit corner of a deserted solidified room on the hills and writing a book!... I geused right so… I never forgot what was written at the back of the book…
a philosophy a 9th grader would never understand,,, but which could shake the very foundations of religions believing in the perfect anatomy of a system that regarded one single minded concept as the base of the universe…. It clearly shattered it and made things simpler
“god in all of his glory is but a concept of the mind. In all of its seeming power he is the human encapsulation and incarnation of what the mind actually craves. It is the incarnation of hope in despair., the thought of good over evil,, it is the desire to believe that rain will come one day even in the most barren, dry and deserted of lands…. God is a concept of the human mind. When we are weak and in need we formulate an image of a supreme power that can change everything at will, this is a natural “reflex mechanism” of our kind to actually encapsulate the thought of “hope” within our understanding… for hope is what motivates our actions in times of utter disbeliefs of circumstances… this entity is not bound by any law of nature, that Is not restricted by any morality or belief…. We look to it for support ,… and we are the makers of god…. The real god is not the creation… but he dwells within the creator. .. and the creator is too lost in his creation… marveling it… but not knowing… never knowing… never accepting or acknowledging his ability to be able to “create”. God is an articulation. God is an illusion shadowed upon a reality….god is the formidable truth…. Yet the untrue… do not look to god.. look unto thyself.. for he … is your creation.”
I stared back at the shopkeeper…. Utter divinity and spark beaming through my eyes…. All my life I had been told that god actually existed…. That god was real and living…. That it was a power known only to a few who had actually felt it and witnessed it… maybe they actually had… but here was a man who countered the theory with absolute defiance … it was shocking why he didn’t come under the open firing of accusations made by the religious brigade of non believers… starring back at my image on a mirror kept at a meters distance from me at the shop…. “look unto thyself”…. !.... i failed miserably in realizing the truth the writer tried to communicate.

Powerful words. So powerful. I delved into the realms of a secret diary that night. “god is an illusion…. How true… or is it just what he said?”

Sad eyes……….

The dead letters of this poet…
Speak the language of this relinquished heart…
No need…
No power….
No desire….
To ever be able to define…
what my eyes see in you...
this life might end….
In trying to define..,
In only but trying…
To define...
The inevitability…
The reality…
The poetry…
The phrases …
and …
The loneliness….
That I’m witness to… in your eyes…
In your eyes…
Lie oceans deeper than the uncrossed and unconquered…
In your eyes….
Lies the future that is yet an untold story…
In your eyes…
Lay the desire to have a better days…
In those brown eyes….
Lay the hopes that you’ve consecrated with the promises I made…
in your eyes…
Lay the broken pieces of the dreams we once shared…
Needless to say…
Those eyes…
They’re sad now…
They’re empty now…
They seem to be searching now…
For a meaning ….
Of what they once spoke …
Was there any meaning anyway?
Or were the eyes deceived?
Deceived they might be….
Deceived they were…
But in those eyes….
Lay the world I wished to share with you…
The dreams I wished to dream with you….
The passion I wanted to restore with you….
The fire of my anger that desired to be burned away…
And the emptiness that longed to disappear forever…
and how deep those eyes were…
ocean deep….
how much they contained…
My soul…
My love…
My happiness…
My vision…
My passion…
And……
My world…
But they know now…
Those eyes…
when they shed those tears in silence…
They might lie….
They might deceive…
They might pretend…
In loss, in jealousy, in love and…
in hate….
But the eyes realize now…
Sadness has not once but abandoned them…
For the eyes know now…
Sad eyes…….Can never lie……….