A hieroglyph (Greek for "sacred carvings") was a character of the ancient Egyptian writing system. Logographic scripts that are pictographic in form in a way reminiscent of ancient Egyptian are also sometimes called "hieroglyphs".
We chose what we believed making it looks like truth but it's not, it's all lies. We create fake reality in our mind for our heart to bare. We deceive our self for sometime, and while writing this—that's what exactly what I had in my thoughts, my heart is aching. This poem I made is about a solitary journey within one self and soul. Goodnight!
A cute little boy, in a stained ripped bottoms , And a top partly looks cloudy due to colour fade , Often, comes to my home, Asks my mother for some bread , Becomes so happy seeing me using phone, After Finishing his food, takes some steps With his a little bit cowering and nervy feets , Comes near and stand behind me, Lifting his heels up he tries to peek, Without flickering his eyes looks the screen, While watching videos babbles in a lower tone , As I usually busy only swiping my phone So ,what he exactly says, I'm not sure, But his curious eyes make me assure That whatever he is watching didn't perceived it before.
If you have lost trust in forever, I would take you to the caves of Ajanta Wherein Epics are Immersed in the ink of eternity And love echoes with the sonnets of solemnity. Each carving is an intimate artistry of aspirations And the hymns of the yore Play in the background, to be heard till the distant shore
You may embrace the scarlet envelopes and not not the letter dressed in white but it is the letter which is the memoir of a loved one. The Taj Mahal is one such memoir and the history of the memoirs in general.
Everyone has seen Mona Lisa and her smile is a spectacle. The painting hangs on the wall the walls are peachy in contrast to the painting.
There is a portrait of the sun breathing the dust at the horizon; it was morn, sharp 5:00 then and now 10:00 at night. The night sky stares at the ocean While the waves blink in silence.
Pointing out a lamp back then, I thought it was moon until I knew that moon is a pale face engraved with scars and there are stars at her threshold, they are job holders in constellations.
City trees, weak and stunted, bear relentless mockery by country and wild cousins, though everyone agrees that suburban trees are least esteemed, paltry excuses overcompensating for their deficits in diversity (of size or shape) with excess pageantry
The enlightened ones, city and suburban, wave manicured tips, speaking in whispered thrums - how relieved they are not to be unprotected forest trees, in constant danger of the ravages of capitalism and neglect
The forest trees laugh at their ignorant cousins - they know the freedom of the wild places where true peace can be found; they will gladly face the danger proudly rooted, in wild ground
The older trees, between naps, wheeze of many, many spring times ago, of cleaner air and bigger trees, of simpler lives and clearer skies and creatures long since gone; they know change will come, And change will go, and Still they will root on
There goes the paper boat, leaving a laugh over the face of that 2'3 being. Amidst the splashing rain and blowing wind, it goes and disappears soon in a world so unknown. The next boat comes and gets engulfed by the tide once again. The chine continues and more and more smiles get vanished until the rain departs.
Under that heavy sky there stands the tiring face of a man, choosing to stay away from the isle of rain. Every drop of water falling over that frail sheet yells a story of past where an unusual war started to end something. There seems a great fight between what is destined for you and what you wish to have and in the end it's your fate that wins.
•R A I N•
Heading high to the sky, it shows how far the clouds are. Probably your wings can touch those but the wind reminds of the dripping drops of broken faith. Indeed the light after the dark sky evaporates the leftover scar, reaped after a huge struggle with your own book wrote with dark red stain. The man near me looked at his wet slacked creases, accepting his destiny as the driving force. He looked up and smiled, Ironically it was the helplessness in him.. But He smiled.
•P A P E R B O A T S•
The raw cellulose moulded in thin sheets and unblemished, always held enough power to recite a man's best. I remember my mother carrying hopes wrapped in these papers which often made her eyes shimmer. Everytime I fold it into a paper boat, she asked me to sail it in a direction where lies a land of desires. Isn't it funny, the way we once enjoyed this little thing once, is now a homage to our dead aspirations.
Seeing a child making paper boats don't cherish the child in us anymore rather it shoots the acquaintance with the upcoming future.
Today it's raining and I wished to sit by the pond and test my fortune once again but the lapse of time covers my head tightly. Perhaps nothing is gonna change when there is no war between those paper boats and rain again. And the lost boats are struggling to return once again. And they are lost again....
P.S writing after a long time , please don't judge.