Life Of Memories (#photograph #poem)


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What Are They Called, Good Old Times? (Poetry)


what are they called, good old times? or what!

what is this feeling of yearn for those times to be back called, love? or death!

~ ~ ~

why have the tides been so harsh, forcing us to wave goodbyes, what is it called, world’s hate? or our fate!

why has the autumn been so kind, not taking us with the fallen leaves; leaving us with hurting hope, what is this called, a ill curse? or a patience-testing boon!

~ ~ ~

why has the wind taken side of the foul mouths, when the air around us is purged with pure feelings for one another; what is this called, unfair? or who-cares-about-the-true-ones!

and why does this world act as if it owns my heart and mind, asking for attention to routines all the time, trying to kill my memories of you; what is this called, healing? or murdering!

~ ~ ~

what are they called, good old times? or what!

what is this feeling of yearn for those times to be back called, love? or death!

~ ~ ~

the other POV is considering “WE” as “the present you” and “the childhood you(innocent)”. read again.

 

Love, Beyond The Realm Of Halos (Poetry)


the words that were to be sung to her,
are held inside for too long,
as if frozen in soliloquy,
my heart wanders around,
the forests and maws of mountains,
all alike,

marauding with a little burning chamber inside my heart,
called hope,

the world shouts that my love for her is archaic,
who are they, to pry on my love,
for my love has never been for a fair lady,
but for an austere soul,
whom i could understand full through,
unravelling all her troubles,
hearing every muted lament,
feeling every burdened heartbeat,
embracing all her pains,
smiling at the beauty of her innocence,
rising my head high, proud of what she is,

there is no one and nothing in this world,
that would usurp this connection,
between her and me,
with my love as the core,
my love shall stand,
even after me passing into the realm of halos.

I Shall Endure – #1



eyes frenetically looking around,
hands sweating like honey plundered from a beehive,
mind racing through memories, as if each memory has a random chance of being the last one to be remembered,
breathing strenuously as if trying to take-in the last of the oxygen present in all of nature’s realms,
feet scuttling directionless, trembling,
tongue going rapidly dry as if it is a ball of flame that will never let live a stream of water,
heart sobbing, all energies spent shouting the truth which was only restricted to the prison it was thrown inside.


i shall endure.