An empty darkness spreads over the realm
of my scattered thoughts that have gone astray
like the shadow cast by a setting sun
on the ground at the end of a bright day.
Shadows of the foliage and yonder hill,
receding from the sun and her warm light,
keep getting longer, forever until
even the plains too are shrouded by the night.
But a darkness all around lets us see
the wonders above, hidden by the sun –
the whole universe and her history
back to the moment her tale had begun.
So on behalf of my scattered thoughts, I
belligerently bid the sun goodbye!
I did not love her for the curls of silk
on her head, cascading down like a stream,
that watered the dried out plains of my heart.
Nor was my love for the sparkle in her eyes
twinkling like the beacon from a lighthouse,
that showed my drifting soul a destiny.
I loved her not for the warmth of her smile,
radiating like an Autumn afternoon,
supple, mellow yet reinvigorating,
that healed my ageing spirit’s chronic wounds.
But why did I love her then, and for what?
I loved her so because she truly was
what I have always wanted my female self to be.
So loving her was like loving myself for me!
do not shake your head
in kindled vehemence
we are not angels,
As human beings with consciousness,
latent at birth and later
buried miles under
Our thoughts can be
both vicious and virtuous.
The contrast lies in our acceptance!
If knowledge does not admit her ignorance,
if virtues do not confess her evil thoughts,
and if light never meets the darkness
on the other side, the ignorance
overflows and the evil inside
in silence grows,
brought up by
to wake up and
open our eyes.
And evil, overgrown, lurks
in our subconscious minds,
as we live our conscious life
without a shred of conscience.
With only our virtues thoroughly
and consciously emphasized, the evil
permeates our thoughts and feelings about
all others, everyone, except the face we see
introspecting, or in an ordinary mirror on the wall!
“Where is she?”, a voice wailed inside my head.
“There she is!”, another, moments later, replied
in ecstasy and my pupils dilated
at her sight, haloed by the rainbow colored lights.
Indeed, she is far prettier than our prettiest dreams,
more beautiful than pure beauty can ever be,
for her other half, forever dark and unseen,
turns beauty to a feeling, mere eyes fail to see.
A feeling, reverberating across
our synapses, remaining lodged within
a few neural paths, waiting for a stimulus,
or a set of stimuli – sharp, blunt, serrating,
is better than a mere sight, quicker too
on the release of all the rest with Dopamine!
And beauty, when all pure and absolute
like that when with impurity she overflows,
is often only half as beautiful
as when she is in harmony with her darkness,
like knowledge that knows the depth of her ignorance…
Don’t you see, the most beautiful time of the day
is when darkness unites with the shimmering light,
once at dawn and once at the dying hour of the sun?
Why do men cry?
O, but men do not cry.
Ooops, my bad, wrong question!
Of course men do not cry;
how else can they be called the man?
I meant to ask, why do male humans weep.
For grief, you say, alright and pain,
sorrow, loss, or by any other name
we may call a heartache?
Perhaps, in brief, for all the reasons a female
human might? But of course
the social construct known as Man,
the very image of God, it is often claimed,
how can it cry and still maintain
its self-imposed godliness; no, men do not cry!
Rather, men prefer to hunt, and plunder,
and men would love to shed their blood and die,
for a cause they have decided to believe,
and often loot and rape, upholding the said cause!
But woe! The thing men truly love
in their hearts, more than all of these combined,
is the role as writers of what
the definition of a woman ought to be!
So, of course men can never cry.
But female humans can become men too
and in shame, the man in male humans too can die!