Sapiens

The arts are magical,

Fantasies, they sustain.

Opium for the heart,

But, they shrink the brain.

 

Subjectivity takes its toll,

Differentiating wrong from right.

It needs to be scarce,

Appreciate it then, we might.

 

For too long, life has been an art,

A story of bravado and defiance.

Time and again, Sapiens must rekindle,

The lost love for Science.

Optics

The skies rained relief,

Forgiving as they are.

The asphalt soaked the water,

Not still overflowing with it.

Meaningless vehicles plied,

En-route their meaningless lives.

The soaked asphalt, though,

Captured their beauty well.

Enthralled, I gazed,

At these reflections, I’d never noticed before.

Skeptical I was, of this becoming an addiction.

But in those moments, a man knows no control.

In some time, the water levels rose.

Disfigured images, were all that was left.

Maybe, everything in life,

Looks more beautiful through some kind of a lens.

But excess of any illusion,

Ruins the magic it is supposed to be.

Winter

The night is cold, wintery almost,
This guy sits alone by the bedpost.

In the silence that has engulfed the night,
He embraces the loneliness, letting go of foresight.

The loneliness engulfs his heart,
The cold tempts him to accept the dark.

But he is the son of the Sun,
He doesn't know another promised one.

He realises the naturality of lust over love,
Holds true for the imaginary gods seated above.

What does he seek? The only one of his kind?
Maybe humans, for what's right, should take a stand.

On this wronged planet, he has given up hope,
The ladies and the gentlemen, all seem doped.

He can not act like you lesser mortals,
He wasn't raised to.
But this world wants to throw him into,
The isolated well you frogs are used to.

Will somebody tell me,
What was his crime?
That he was a man of his words?
That he was way ahead of his time?

Aadat

Where are my fucking words?

Wasted on humans not worth?

That which I heard in my teens, that one fucking song ,

Cannot be where I shall always belong.

I should make myself a new melody,

Maybe, a melancholic rhapsody.

And I must incinerate the future,

So that my past doesn’t matter.

Happiness is not what I pursue,

I long for peace every single night,

Peace long due.

Destructive habits I do have,

That I could possibly never leave.

But discarding them should now begin.

Beginning with the ones,

My words who would not believe.