Lie-ability

It says, human did not know how to lie. It came to us as well started settling in this world.

What/who taught us this unique ability?

What/whosoever it was, changed the shape of the world we know today.

Twisted

Lie-ability

Act of concealing what we label as truth,

Comes natural to most if gazed up close.

Tranquil tunes wrapped with fallacy,

Are being administered at a regular doze.

Tricks are quaint and treats seem heartening,

Masking the gloomy road ahead.

An act that never ends but keeps circling,

Even after the lie has spread.

Some are necessary, noble, and kind,

While most seem innocent with a deceitful glimmer.

Precarious are the stones on which,

Lie makes promises to a desperate winner.

Necessary evil whose chains have broken,

Commands even the noblest of us.

Since the beginning only truth has spoken,

Impeccable amidst the liar’s fuss.

Follow The Poet and the Pen for more such works. Poem #96

Glimmering Jungle


Every city is like a maze,

Plots with various turns and twist,

Towers of age old touching skies,

A glimmering jungle where we exist.

Each one has it’s own character,

It’s own story and speed of life.

Unique language persists in each,

Concrete jungles where we strife.

Seemingly similar yet not the same,

Something makes these cities alive,

I have played my role in many,

Just like every other who reside.

As I stare at these glimmering jungles,

I see a game unfolding by me.

Funny is this show of light,

Different despite being similar, irony.

Literal literature

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.

Picture on the wall

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.