Afterglow

I carry pocket sized chaos on my shoulder,

When living schedules has become a boulder.

I feel a trace of that encounter,

As if placed by a skilled mounter.

I remember when light flooded away the dark,

And everything had that radiant glow.

But the candle wick has been burnt stark,

And the light does not seem to flow.

Yet I remember the sound of that light,

Provoking me against my own might.

To fight that treacherous fight,

To once again see the lighted sight.

I turn to the mirror to find this light,

And I am stunned by the amazing sight.

There is no more of my own light left to show,

I am but drenched in the burnt candle’s afterglow.

/* We all have these wonderful experiences with places and people that really impact us . And they all change us in a way. So much so that the burnt out candle's afterglow becomes a part of our own glow. We may not be in touch with those wonderful people and places , but what they taught us lingers , just like afterglow. So , even when the sun goes down , I have a light . */

Lightbulb Sun

It is that hour before dawn,

Mind full of excesses sought.

An entire night has passed since the sun,

In a night so dark the sun seems to have burnt its final.

So I will shut all curtains,

Blacken all the windows.

And live my life by the light of this light bulb,

Yellow iridescent sun in a ball of glass.

Outside the dawn rises,

And the sun arises from dreams of yellow glass.

But these windows have been long blackened,

And in this room the sun rises in helium glasses.

/* It is all about perspective. If you shut out all the windows , the lightbulbs will be the brightest things you have ever seen. */

A Rainbow of Autumn Colours

There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,

For no rainbow ever is golden.

You shall reap as you sow,

As we do not deserve this Garden of Eden.

Golden rainbows have been lost in the worm hole,

And now gold within the seven colours is hidden.

Gold only in Eden shall survive into the morrow,

So she hid herself with different colours laden.

With Violet , green , blue ,red and indigo,

Gold has always been smitten.

And in some corner of some cornered summer sky,

Lay a rainbow of autumn color.

Orange , red , brown of fallen leaves were its ally,

Faded green and mahogany were its pallor.

Colours of pathos , colors of sombre , colours of a lost might,

The autumn colours told a tale of lost valour.

A little sad, a little alone in that cornered summer sky,

No sunset could this rainbow discolour.

Maybe there was a hidden gold in its cry,

That made all the autumn colours look smaller.

/* It is incredible as to where you find beauty. Some see it in the multicoloured rainbow , and some in autumn colours. Let every man march to the music he hears ! */

Summer Song

That one song that always plays,

Reminding me of time slipping away.

Of sounds heard , of times of luck,

Of hisses , of tracks , of the summer’s glory .

Song of joy , song of melancholy ,

Song of remembrance , song of benevolence.

How do you fit every trend?

How do you fit all of my mind’s bends?

And I always remember my golden summer,

And how I tried to make it stay,

Like holding sand in my hands,

Alas , winter has dethroned lovely trance.

But tell me this dear song,

Will I make the summers stay?

Or will they always slip away?

Or even in the winters the summer within is here to stay?

/* The song I'm talking about is trains by porcupine tree. It is strange how this song has marked my life . It has a certain melancholy to it and also a certain joy to it that makes it fit for every situation. In the song , Steven Wilson sings , ' Always the summers are slipping away , find me a way to make it stay. ', as if saying that none of the good times will last , and it seems like he's crying in vain for a way to make it stay. And I wonder , what if you stop looking for happiness i.e the summer outside , and start looking for it inside. Then even the coldest winters will not affect the summers inside you. The last line is inspired by an Albert Camus quote. */

Open Book

Every person is a book, 
I read when I take a look.
Through the window of the eyes,
I can see through your disguise.
Masquerade if that's your plan,
If you need to..I understand.
There are places I still can reach,
bring out your diamond that lies beneath.
The mind is just one handy tool,
to understanding what is true.
So walk with me down this path,
as we calculate and do our math.
Use our failures as stepping stones,
providing strength we have never known.
Phoenix Rising to become anew ,
Shedding fears of a fool .
So go ahead and take a look,
Read my soul just like an open book...

Black and White

Black bird flying in a white sky,

Or white bird flying in a black sky.

Black not giving way to white,

Nor white giving way to black.

What is black but the absence of white?

And what is white but an absence of black?

Alas there are more colours to see,

Red and yellow beckoning to be.

Black is the negation of all colours,

White is the amalgamation of all colours.

Two opposite ends, with nothing in common,

But the emptiness defining this continuum

When will black and white ever learn?

That they can’t do without one another?

Red and yellow wait to be draped ,

In the beauty of that singular gray.

/ yes it has lateralus references/

Borrowed Scent

I plucked a rose today,

Now I am left in dismay.

The rose tried to leave its scent,

But my mind had one slippery bend.

Dreaming of the golden years,

I slept away all the time that was near.

And all that’s left now is mixing tears,

In vain trying to fight human fears.

Lost in the drops of the first rain,

I didn’t wipe the eye’s rain of pain.

And in those rainy reveries,

I wished to stay forever merrily.

Those dreams of the misty mornings,

In the hot afternoon firings.

And the benevolent sun shining ,

And this majestic plan transpiring.

Blossomed roses cannot unblossom,

And their scent lingers long into the morrow .

Golden years never return,

yet their light shines on all dark paths.

If I could, I would grow my roses ,

In that wonderful rain of that golden year.

But the roses’ scent lingers as does the smell of the first rain,

As I continue on a solitary path with its myriad borrowed scents.

                

* So , first post in a while. Now where do I begin to say what this is all about. It's about this idea of perfection that <some> of us stupid guys chase. And the fact is there really is no such thing as absolute perfection or absolute truth. I mean everyone has some good qualities and some flaws . And if you start moving away from people just because of their flaws and ignore their good , you are gonna end up being really miserable and depressed and lonely. Fact is there really isn't much black and white in the world outside science text books. And as that cheesy cliche goes , go find your own shade of grey . Anywho , you can't measure yourself or anything else by this golden standard in your head , because then you'll just push away all the good that comes you. And even if you push all that good away, their scent lingers on like roses you once held. The least you can do is not let that scent fade away. You can't look for perfect in an imperfect world. And I wish I knew all this before. But, I guess that's the thing about maturity, it comes to you when it has to. *