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An art which appeared long ago,

Is perishing with each passing day.

The profound game of words and phrases,

Ironically is lost for words and way.

Literal sense of what literature means,

Is perhaps the one that comes last.

A set of rules which were meant to simplify,

As per whims and wishes are changing fast.

Take it at its true value,

A deal to deceit one called life,

If you must, change your actions for good,

Leaving the literal literature alive.

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Darkest nights fear from thee,

Thou who art the bearer of light.

Endless shadows that can always be,

Cripple at the Phoenix’s flight.

Blazing wings that art thy glory,

Burning heart that is thy desire,

Flaming eyes that art thy passion,

Together makes one the bird of fire.

Phoenix that ends the reign of zilch,

Only re-borns from its ash.

Darkest nights fear from thee,

Thou who harbours fire in flesh.

 

 

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Another day, another week, another thought.

A very good day to all of you!

Before we start, I would like to urge all my readers to read the title once again.

Flawed is flawless

Interpret it, and post the same in the comments section below.

Everything that we do is earmarked with some kind of flaw, but is it so?

What if that itself is flawless?!?

This can go on for a while, so let us not go there. However, do keep this in mind.

Flawed is flawless

So I asked this strange fellow whose path crossed that of mine,

While we journeyed together, talking and sipping some wine.

A doctor by profession, who knew the world he lived in,

Fond of the phrase, “Flawed is divine”.

Tell me doctor, why is it so?

Smilingly said, because I know.

Look at anything you can cast your eyes upon,

It will be flawed as it is nature.

What we think as flawed is something else,

Flaw is the uniqueness of every creature.

Produced and designed by beings not living,

Can be similar to the very inch.

But that is not what flawless is about,

Flawless is the uniqueness every being should clinch.

Flawed is flawless, don’t you think?

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It has been quite a while since I wrote anything. Maybe it is because I have been busy lately or maybe there is a reason.

Yes, it sometimes doesn’t make much sense to do what we do in our day-to-day life but yet somehow it all comes together in the final picture. Maybe this is why there is always a reason behind anything anyone ever does.

Read to know…know to read

Reason

Not everything will make a perfect sense,

Perhaps something we should be thankful for.

This long journey encompassing all tense,

Never ceases to startle us like before.

And while we learn and adapt to our lives,

Declaring solidarity with a lady named luck.

A quaint fellow manages to thrive,

Appearing in the end to leave us awestruck.

Again, not everything will make perfect sense,

Perhaps that is what helped us all along.

Behind every uncertainty, possibility and suspense,

Lies a reason, incomprehensible and strong.

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Segmented thoughts are fluttering by,

Shadowing uncertainty over right and wrong,

Quite moment comes rarely these days.

Lyrics are mute yet loud is the song.

Dice, how do you do it?

Rolling, Tumbling, spinning side,

Not knowing what lies beyond,

Taking chances is how you decide.

Life, the six faced gambler, 

Has randomness as its guide. 



The best is not over… read till the end.Hello fellow reader from a place unknown, hope you found the words appropriate. So how have you been lately?

I am fine and smiling as I write from somewhere in the globe. It is funny, isn’t it? I talked about randomness in my Poem and here it is, a perfect example of the same. Some stranger whom I have never seen, met or even talked to is reading and understanding my words from an unknown place (talk about randomness there!)

Beautiful! Right?

Life is mundane at times, we feel low or bad or sad or sometimes even get mad. BUT (Yes this one required a higher volume)…But that is the thing, in order for life to be fun and exciting it also needs to add in the mundane flavour.

Get it?Well, I’ll let you to decide. Just one thing I would like to say before I step off. Try and see at all the randomness that is floating around you and in your life and if you do find any, which you will for sure, convey that feeling to this fellow whose words you just read, Out of randomness. 

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Gushing voices need to calm,

Racing steps need to amble,

Infuriated minds need to breathe,

As in the end it is just a gamble.

End is endless for it is desire,

No one ever acquired it all,

For while will is the necessary fire,

Peace and happiness are your call.

For if there is a smile on your face,

And the want to do something good,

Invest yourself in a valuable chase,

In the end it will be all you actually could.

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Sun is about to bid goodbye,

Waving slowly as it settles down.

Whispers in the wind are flying by,

As I stand at the end of town.

Now while there are many walking around,

Leaving a trail quite and free,

I hear a sound, so peaceful and profound,

Sound of Waves at the edge of the sea.

Nothing more poetic when nature rhymes,

Sound of waves, of birds, of air.

I feel acquitted of all my crimes,

Sound of Waves has something to share.

Beaches have always been one of my favourite places. Now you know why.

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People are like chameleons, changing their colours as per necessity. While that is what we all do there is another truth which every one seems to forget or perhaps give somewhat less of a weightage…

It’s the truth about their True Colours. No one can hide their true colours forever. Sooner or later they show what they are constitute of. So here is to the concept of True Colours and when can we see them best.

Read and Enjoy!

 

Innate in the nature of nature’s most evolved,

Are the traits of a certain crawler.

Changing colours as per whim,

Common in both illiterate and scholar.

Tales suggest that they stand along,

When everything revolving around is fine.

It also suggests their absence and silence,

At the slightest occurrence of trouble’s sign.

Loss, poverty, alienation and sadness,

Reveals the truth of those whom you count.

True colours can never be concealed,

Yin plus Yang is the true amount.

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And the walls of the old house were strong,

Standing and steering for generations now.

Each mark on them had its own story,

Each pillar kept secret the family vow.

But one picture caught my eye,

A portrait of someone long-lost now.

An unforgetful face, even if I try.

Bold, beautiful and righteous frau.

So many emotions did the portrait portray,

A genius for sure, who played with colours.

Some saw her happy while some grey,

“Life”, wrote the painter, “every single day”.

It is only as beautiful as you believe it to be and only as dark as you see.

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Women are mysterious they say. They are never fully understood by anyone which makes them special.

Yes, words are not to demean anyone but to highlight the beauty of the mystery women carry with themselves. A similar beautiful encounter is penned below.

She was a painter who saw it all.

A Painter

Summer of Spain, two thousand and ten.

I see a painter sitting by the street,

Face so innocent, eyes so calm.

She makes painting of those who desire.

Each stroke has its own charm.

I see her eyes as hypnotic as they are,

Looking at children playing in the alley,

My table and her chair aren’t much far,

Her paintings aren’t anything less of a story.

Oh and there is a secret, she keeps to herself,

Known only to a few like myself,

What you see is unknown to her,

While her vision is the painting itself.