chai_encephalon_21

Crocheting my reveries into weekend verses: I'm a pound of half-baked poetries and a dozen plastered smiles. MBBS@GMCH, Assam

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  • chai_encephalon_21 17w

    ENTRY:25

    All written rights reserved
    16th of Sept'21

    "Let's waste time, chasing cars
    Around our heads.
    If I lay here
    If I just lay here
    Would you lie with me and just forget the world? "
    -Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol.
    -------------------------------------------------------
    HALF BAKED POETRIES
    AND SOME PLASTERED SMILES.

    I'm painting my nights with happy lies
    And, tessellating the pavements with rotten goodbyes.
    On cracked dishes of half- baked poetries,
    I serve your name wrapped in crumbs of stale Chapattis.

    On nights, when street-lights go blind,
    And, mannequins waltz behind frozen bars;
    Do you still lie wide awake,
    as racing trojans sing chasing cars?

    On dawns, when dew drops veil
    the face of moss-laden alleys;
    Do you still lie wide awake
    contouring her gaze on the lips of leaking ceilings?

    On evenings, when diurnal birds are homebound
    And, the lazy sun sets in the eyelids of your hazy vision;
    Do you manage to snitch a pinch of sedation,
    from her cotton-candy cheekbones?

    Or are you still wide awake?
    Spinning lullabies from the cacophony of silence;
    While, yarning fabrics of euphoria,
    from the plastered smile of a raconteur.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #wod #start
    @writersnetwork
    @miraquill

    #ceesreposts

    (P. S. I was away for a while. Shifting places and adjustment issues amidst pandemic feels really hectic. Trying to adjust and cope up with the new schedule of my fast paced life. My end sem exams starts from 21st. Will be free after 28th. I really apologize for my unavailability over here and my delay in reading y'all. I'll get back to you guys,soon. Stay safe��.)

    @fromwitchpen
    @heartsease
    @ak_anjali_daydreamzz , I really missed you guys����. I hope you guys are doing good.

    @aleesa
    @bohemian_ballerina
    @calm_chaos

    Read More

    Half-baked poetries
    and some plastered smiles.


    I'm painting my nights with happy lies
    And, tessellating the pavements with rotten goodbyes.
    On cracked dishes of half- baked poetries,
    I serve your name wrapped in crumbs of stale Chapattis.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 22w

    ENTRY:24

    All written rights reserved.
    19th of August'21

    "There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood."
    -Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    FOREWORD:
    This poem is an ode to the countless Afgan children whose childhood has been trampled by the hands that never touched the face of humanity. May the Almighty give those innocent souls the strength to keep breathing.
    I'm totally broken and devasted after everything that satellites have been broadcasting to us.
    -----------------------------------------------------------
    POV- of one of those unfortunate fugitive child who returns to his city to catch the glimpse of the face of the cradle where he was born.

    ----------------------------------------------------------------

    -METROPOLIS TO NECROPOLIS-

    Stranded in the midst frozen concrete,
    Estranged, bewailing for the fate,
    Neither season nor time brought,
    But the trunk, they sheltered and nurtured.

    A year of yore, I remember,
    When the road I stand, emanated warmth
    For my hands were held by my dad's,
    who's flesh now lay in the rubbles.

    Gleeful were those days of yore,
    When my mom's bosom expunged insecurities,
    My dad's shoulder instilled strength,
    And these lanes taught my tiny feet to cast footprints.

    And suddenly,

    The cityscape shrieked, bombs wallowed,
    And a bunch of unknown faces took me,
    To a land where bereaved hearts squalled
    And I yearned for the cradle where I was born.

    Altercation,vengeance,avarice, condescension
    Robbed me of my childhood,
    Annihilated my mom's bosom
    Devoured my dad's shoulder.

    A metropolis crashed into a necropolis
    Where frozen concrete wail unfathomably,
    Decaying carcass moan naively
    And I stand dead, my hopes: decayed.

    Time seemed to stand still
    on the canvas of dead silence;
    And I stand thunderstruck,espying
    through the bars of defenestrated empathy

    A shriek to flee, though inaudible,
    shall resonate the chamber in your city,
    where the lungs of my hope,
    Still inhales the gray air of apathy.

    "Can my lost childhood or the countless carcasses
    ever do justice to the pangs borne onto the faithful concrete?"

    If only, they set open those frosted chambers,
    I'd long to meet the perpetrators under the moonlit sky,
    And ask them for the worth of-
    A bosom, a shoulder, a life-crushed under the debris.

    "...how pitifully you seek answers from voices that never gulped bereavement!"-
    A carcass smirked;
    And I realized,
    My childhood has been robbed by hands, I did no harm to.

    ©chai_encephalon_21


    #wod #city #ceesreposts
    @miraquill
    @writersnetwork thank you so much for ❤ and repost. WN REPOST(5). I'm elated��

    @fromwitchpen
    @heartsease
    @calm_chaos
    @aleesa
    @bohemian_ballerina



    (P.S. my offline classes will resume in a week. I've been really very busy trying to cover up all my backlogs. Pardon me for my unavailability here. I'll surely read y'all once life gets into track and gets in pace with the motion.)

    Read More

    METROPOLIS TO NECROPOLIS

    If only, they set open those frosted chambers,
    I'd long to meet the perpetrators under the moonlit sky,
    And ask them for the worth of-
    A bosom, a shoulder, a life-crushed under the debris.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 23w

    ENTRY:23
    All written rights reserved.
    6th of August'21.

    "Dead people put on weight, it seems to me; both in their flesh and in our minds, they put on weight. "
    - Stephen King, Bag of bones


    DEATH OF THE DECEASED: A VIATOR

    What do you think?
    When you think of the deceased.
    Do they really die?
    When their fragile vessels give up.

    Or they persist, in the tunes of our favourite song,
    What do you think?
    We bury their flesh under the land where,
    they once walked to consider them dead.

    But, can you bury them under the floor
    of your cardiac ballroom where you both had once waltzed?
    What do you think?
    Will you then consider them dead?

    Time continues to suture those lacerations,
    With fibrin threads of wise words,
    And lay granulation tissue to seal the wound.
    What do you think?
    Can we ever leave it unkempt
    for the wounds to heal without scarring?

    For, everytime we take their name,
    We scratch those wounds
    Only to bring their flashbacks to life
    and let blood spurt out and blemish the serene sheets.
    What do you think?
    Do we heal in pain or in peace?

    Can you ever consider them dead until you die?
    For, long after their bodies are gone, they still continue to
    Breathe through your lungs of longings;
    See through your eyes of memories;
    And feel through the freckles of your rumpled skin.
    What do you think?


    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #wod
    #viator
    #ceesreposts

    @writersnetwork thank you for the ❤. Means a lot ��
    @miraquill




    (Postscript-
    ��Granulation tissue is new connective tissue and microscopic blood vessels that form on the surfaces of a wound during the healing process.
    ��Fibrinogen is a coagulation protein from which fibrin is formed. It basically strengthens the clot.
    ��laceration is a deep cut on skin or flesh.
    ��rumpled means something that can be easily wrinkled.
    ��by fragile vessels, I mean the human body which is vulnerable to death unlike
    memories which live on and on even after people are dead.)

    Read More

    Death of the deceased: A viator

    Can you ever consider them dead until you die?
    For, long after their bodies are gone, they still continue to
    Breathe through your lungs of longings;
    See through your eyes of memories;
    And feel through the freckles of your rumpled skin.
    What do you think?

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 23w

    ENTRY: 22
    All written rights reserved
    5th of August'21


    "If there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again. "
    -Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca


    TO CATCH A SIGHT OF,
    THE FALCON IN FLIGHT.

    Contouring the highways, they stood;
    And swayed with every gust of wind
    that was splashed onto their face,
    As the cars raced and chased.

    What do racing cars chase?
    The fleeting view of the ever standing spectators;
    Or the tail of the rainbow: a mirage
    that bisects the face of the crimson offing?

    Is life a Fibonacci sequence,
    Of moments touched and to be touched?
    Or a palindrome shaped in
    the silhouette of a sinusoidal curve(?).

    Maybe, life is a series of moments
    that are tied to the wings of
    a falcon in flight.
    Else, why'd it fade at the first sight?

    Maybe, life is but a soap bubble of moments,
    Which when touched, in the wink of an eye:
    Morphs moments into memories;
    Faces into photographs.

    Maybe, life is all about the few moments,
    When our hands continue to waltz
    in the ballroom engraved underwater
    Of the fleeting stream of time.

    In the eternity of universe and space,
    What does the fleeting pace of time chase?
    That moments, alike the stream of water,
    slips through the web spaces of mortal hands.

    Segregating time into hours, days and years,
    Or stalking calendars of bygone years,
    are but futile endeavours of the mortals,
    To catch a sight of the falcon in flight.

    Probably, life is all about embracing the moments,
    Before the views lose all its hues
    And landscapes turn into polaroids,
    Only to be locked in the monochrome city of imagery.

    //Let's waste time chasing cars around our heads. //

    While, we live most of our lives, in our mindscape
    Chasing the 'what-ifs' of every road taken,
    We often miss out on the infinitesimal moments,
    When the 'falcon in flight'
    pauses for some millisecond,
    To smirk at the mortals,
    who expends the allotted time-lapses
    re-painting polaroids in pigments
    of their ruminative figments.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #wod
    #time
    #ceesreposts

    @writersnetwork thank you so much��. WN repost (4) EC(5) ❤
    @miraquill

    @torqoiseink17
    @clichepenname
    @heartsease
    @aleesa
    @calm_chaos
    (P. S. I've been very busy over these days. Bear with my delay in reading your posts.)
    P. S. S. The lines between //...// is from the song CHASING CARS by Snow patrol. Over the last few months, I've been listening to this song on loop.

    Read More

    TO CATCH A SIGHT OF
    THE FALCON IN FLIGHT


    Is life a Fibonacci sequence,
    Of moments touched and to be touched?
    Or a palindrome shaped in
    the silhouette of a sinusoidal curve(?).

    In the eternity of universe and space,
    What does the fleeting pace of time chase?
    That moments, alike the stream of water,
    slips through the web spaces of mortal hands.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 24w

    Entry:21
    All written rights reserved.
    3rd of August'21

    ECDYSIS

    Gone are the days
    when happiness had a face
    as bland as a boiled egg,
    presented on a crude plate
    where salt of sophistication
    couldn't manage to skate.

    //Unfurling the ragged sails of
    the fragile vessel: human-body;//

    //The soul expends itself,
    voyaging on the sail of evolution.//

    Assimilating radiations to fit in
    and read between the lines of cryptic paragraphs
    In the modernised textbooks of unruly sophistication;
    How long do we hold onto the
    bland yet heartfelt attributes of life?

    "Survival of the fittest": the universal face
    of Darwin's evolutionary puppet.
    Mutations in the germ-lines;
    carving robotics in a body of bones and blood.

    Alike arthropods,
    Maybe, our traits evolve
    on the crutch of ecdysis.
    And with each episode,
    We accrue adaptive tactics,
    To keep in pace with the chameleon taxies.

    //What is bartered to sail
    in Darwinian sea of fittest? //

    Camaraderie dwindled to a trickle,
    Humanity held at the edge of a hand-sickle.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #wod
    #sail
    #ceesreposts
    @writersnetwork thanks a lot for the ❤.
    @miraquill

    @torqoiseink17
    @fromwitchpen
    @calm_chaos
    @heartsease
    @aleesa
    @clichepenname
    @bohemian_ballerina

    Hope it makes some sense :(:

    Read More

    ECDYSIS

    What is bartered to sail
    in Darwinian sea of fittest?

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 24w

    ENTRY:20
    All written rights reserved.
    2nd of August'21

    "Everything you've ever wanted is on the other side of fear. "
    -George Addair


    ON THE FACE OF FEAR

    Fear invaded my mind
    like a brood parasite,
    that clomped down the stairs,
    To lay eggs on the nest my phobias.

    The hatchlings cackle
    and feed on my nerves,
    To swim in the pool of Cortisol,
    that floods my mental chamber.

    I was afraid of the dark:
    Nyctophobia, they'd say;
    The relentless tick-tock, at night
    Kept my weary eyes wide open.

    For, darkness had a face,
    Where uncertainties gargle,
    And anxieties continue to hiccup,
    Both of which, I fail to shoo away.

    So, the next time it was dark,
    And fear rang the 'ding-dong'
    I took to stargazing
    And darkness felt serene.

    I was afraid of the heights;
    Acrophobia, they'd say,
    My feet would tremble,
    And chills to run down my spine.

    For, taming the jitters,
    Wasn't a part of my trade,
    Critiques would kick me off the cliff,
    I had grinded my bones to ascend.

    So the next time, my toes go cold;
    And judgements honk and blare,
    Someday, I'd stare it at its eyes,
    And say aloud, " Heights had views: worthwhile."

    I was afraid of falling in love;
    Philophobia, they'd say
    Through the eyes of an impostor,
    I was just a hollow phrase.

    Hearts bleed worst,
    When it bleeds in love;
    Empires fall apart;
    Mosaics bite the dust.

    So, the next time, my throat get sore,
    And my cochlea reverberates with amore;
    I'd let the shards of my broken heart,
    Strum melodies on my feeble chordae tendineae.

    Maybe, poetries on blood-tinged lanes, bloom the best
    With words assembled at a vagabond's behest.
    For, when hearts break, it bleeds poetry;
    Only to induce telomeres in cell-lines of half-written stories.


    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #onomatopoeia
    #wod
    #ceesreposts
    #somedayc
    @writersnetwork thank you so much for the ❤.
    @miraquill
    @torqoiseink17
    @writersbay
    @fromwitchpen
    @heartsease
    @aleesa
    @fireblast_
    @ak_anjali_daydreamzz
    Wrote something after a break! Hope it makes some sense :)

    Read More

    ON THE FACE OF FEAR

    For, darkness had a face,
    Where uncertainties gargle,
    And anxieties continue to hiccup,
    Both of which, I fail to shoo away.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 26w

    ENTRY:19

    Line: I'd rather weave poems with your leftovers memories than...

    All written rights reserved,
    21st of July'21

    TO DIE
    A COMET'S DEATH

    //I'd rather weave poems
    with your leftovers memories than,//
    Incinerate the ruins to cage
    the ashes in the forbidden chamber
    Of the sandcastle where we had once lived.

    Ever since your departure,
    My quill remained jailed
    In the Iambic aperture
    Of longings and belongings.
    Did her nerves get necrosed?
    Or is she still waiting to die
    a comet's death or meet
    the Dandelion's fate?

    The love we nurtured,
    Died on the gridiron of expectations,
    Where we had roasted
    Worldly predicaments.
    And toasted the world
    I had viewed through
    your intriguing amber eyes.

    Ever since you left,
    I didn't change the wallpaper of my phone
    That said,
    //go laugh at the places, you've cried;
    Change the narrative. //

    But how could I muster audacity
    To walk the lanes,
    Where vultures sing
    your vulnerable name?

    Stranded on the crossroads,
    Today, my spine trembles again,
    This time not with the fear of losing,
    But the tremor of keeping
    A time bomb loaded with
    Your whiff and mischiefs!

    "All's well that ends well" you'd say,
    Everytime we traced the tail of
    an ill-fated shooting star:
    Shining dead through the sky
    Flickering hope in the dead man's eyes.

    So, I filled my pockets
    With the last beams of
    The homebound sun,
    To graffiti onto the walls
    Of that dilapidated sandcastle:
    //Endings can be beautiful,
    even when beginnings are painful//.

    Tonight, on the wick of your white lies
    I shall set ablaze the polaroids
    Which had captured the happiest of our days;
    Gulp the time bomb which ticks
    synchronised to your heartbeat
    And, retrace the frozen trails,
    To salvage my quill and resuscitate her lungs,
    While injecting into her Jugular vein,
    The potion I brewed
    Stirring the cauldron,
    With the broken bone of
    Your hollowed promises.

    Your departure is the painful beginning,
    Only to lead my quill to a beautiful ending;
    Maybe, to let it die a comet's death,
    Or help it meet the Dandelion's fate!

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #start #wod

    @writersnetwork thank you so much for the❤.
    @miraquill

    #ceesreposts
    @fromwitchpen
    @heartsease
    @aleesa
    @torqoiseink17
    @clichepenname
    @calm_chaos
    @zoya_charmz
    @ak_anjali_daydreamzz

    (P.S. It sounds lame but I can't help. Writer's block is knocking at my door��)

    Read More

    TO DIE
    A COMET'S DEATH


    But how could I muster audacity
    To walk the lanes,
    Where vultures sing
    your vulnerable name?

    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 26w

    PROMPT:INFERENCE

    "The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil is interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain."
    -Ursula K. Le Guin
    Excerpt from:
    The ones who walk away from Omelas

    ----------------------------------------------------------

    ENTRY:18

    All written rights reserved
    20th of July'21

    FUNERAL OF THE MURDERED ROSES

    The other day, my thoughts
    raced the crane in flight,
    The clouds froze, while I was
    stargazing in broad daylight.
    The wings delivered sunbeams,
    that couldn't thaw
    Helios succumbed to frost-bite,
    caged in sleet, he failed to gnaw.

    Will it precipitate into droplets on leaves that rustle?
    Or shoot fireballs to murder
    the inmates of my air-castle.
    Queer, isn't it?
    For a frigid sky to shoot
    siblings of asteroids than frozen motifs!

    Maybe, life is a series of stark negatives and antonyms,
    That we smudge onto our lips like sugar-coated symphonies.
    Else, why'd he eulogise love that trampled his limbic cortex?
    Or laud the red on the funeral of murdered roses.

    Now his heart: a graveyard of sunflowers,
    And his eyes: gateway to the Necropolis,
    He forges on his mind, to hang portraits,
    Of bygone lovers, who plucked thorns
    from his unfenced garden of rose;
    And daub the shingly walls with hues,
    he snitched from the thorax of Monday-blues.

    While the ruins of romantic conceit are extolled;
    The anecdotes of vermilion deceit are paroled
    With incandescent garlands of glory,
    On crinkled sheets : pink with an innocent story.

    Maybe, our vagabond spirits go destitute,
    Sneaking ways to relish happiness
    That pedants tag as tomfoolery.

    While true essence of happiness is underrated,
    in the modernised textbooks of sophistication;
    A quest for minute contentment,
    in the era of flamboyant exhilaration,
    is viewed by the dogmatists as a hopeless appendix
    dangling at the edges of a bored caecum! (Maybe?)

    Pain is claimed intellectual,
    For, a potion of pickled grievances
    can bloom poetries on drought-stricken lands;
    While the kohl of treachery when
    smeared at the corners of hazel eyes
    can cause death to stop by
    and stare in an intriguing guise.

    Maybe, poets and artists weave masterpieces
    on stiff threads steeped in blood:
    Of heartbreaks,
    Of grievances,
    Of resentments,
    Only to let their imageries
    get tattooed onto the walls
    Of beholder's cardiac chambers.

    The infamous nuances of banal evil,
    Or the flicker of vigor in
    // terrible boredom of pain//
    can be savoured only through glasses
    tinted with saccharine metaphors;
    Or hands that carve enlightenment
    At the altitudes of trepidation.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    [P.S. Idk if it makes sense. Wrote this to keep writer's block at bay :) ]
    #inference
    #wod
    @writersnetwork thank you so much for the ❤
    @miraquill I can't be more grateful ����❤. POD(1)

    #ceesreposts
    @fromwitchpen
    @heartsease
    @aleesa
    @torqoiseink17
    @clichepenname
    @zoya_charmz
    @jeelpatel
    @ak_anjali_daydreamzz

    Read More

    FUNERAL OF THE MURDERED ROSES

    Pain is claimed intellectual,
    For, a potion of pickled grievances
    can bloom poetries on drought-stricken lands;
    While the kohl of treachery when
    smeared at the corners of hazel eyes
    can cause death to stop by
    and stare in an intriguing guise.
    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 26w

    ENTRY:17

    All written rights reserved.
    19th of July'21

    CHARCOAL REVERIES

    Scale heights on
    Poetries of flight.

    Clasp your psychedelic muse,
    Till it bleeds in azure hues.

    Dye your weary sheets
    in crimson tinged metaphors,

    And release your meek syllables
    to roar with the thunderstorms.

    Pulverise your charcoal reveries,
    To paint their lips
    with the whiff of peonies.

    Let your phrases climb
    the scaffold of eulogies,
    To boomerang on
    the tendrils of elegies.

    Let your unrequited longings
    race the arteries of your quill,
    Only to bleed love,
    on the chest of Miraquill.

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    @miraquill thank you for EC(4) ❤❤��
    @writersnetwork thank you so much for ❤ and repost. WN repost(3) ����
    #jingle
    #wod #ceesreposts
    @aleesa
    @squared
    @clichepenname

    Read More

    CHARCOAL REVERIES

    Let your unrequited longings
    race the arteries of your quill,
    Only to bleed love,
    on the chest of Miraquill.
    ©chai_encephalon_21

  • chai_encephalon_21 26w

    ENTRY:16

    All written rights reserved
    18th of July'21

    HOW MANY RIVERS TILL DEATH?

    The lush green forest went bald,
    Advent of the fall, they herald.
    The icy blasts slapped their face, turning pale,
    On graveyard of dead hopes; frostbitten, they fail.
    Why do trees discard their verdant hopes,
    When the sap has to walk the tightrope?

    Maybe, in the transience of life and its ways,
    We surrender to adversities, when blinded by haze.
    Only to nurture buds in their bosom,
    They bury dead hopes in the mantle of microcosm.
    Alike, how long do we cling to voices that go dumb?
    And grieve on graves till our senses go numb?

    Maybe, Autumn is the testament that,
    Bereaved hearts burn, in the flames of yearnings
    Clinging to necrosed faces, evading macabre learnings.
    Alike the deciduous Great Oak in marcescence,
    We hold onto hopes even when they succumb to dehiscence.

    The bright autumn colours are but reprieve
    Only to free ourselves of grief, we grieve.
    Only to let rosy buds on axils, blossom;
    We let the dead leaves be phagocytosed off our bosom.

    Alike the deciduous trees caught in
    embryogenesis and abscission: the vicious cycle;
    Or a cell trapped in mitotic cell cycle
    Waiting to hit the Hay-flick limit;
    How many rivers of death, we gotta swim across,
    To finally lie(die) buried under the Holy Cross?

    ©chai_encephalon_21

    #mondo #wod #ceesreposts
    @writersnetwork thank you so much for the ❤
    @miraquill HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY�� ❤

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    HOW MANY RIVERS TILL DEATH?

    The bright autumn colours are but reprieve
    Only to free ourselves of grief, we grieve.
    Only to let rosy buds on axils, blossom;
    We let the dead leaves be phagocytosed off our bosom.

    Alike the deciduous trees caught in
    embryogenesis and abscission: the vicious cycle;
    Or a cell trapped in mitotic cell cycle
    Waiting to hit the Hay-flick limit;
    How many rivers of death, we gotta swim across,
    To finally lie(die) buried under the Holy Cross?
    ©chai_encephalon_21