With an upsurge in Covid-19 cases it has become extremely important to follow basic protocols such as wearing face mask , washing hands regularly and staying home or maintaining proper social- physical distancing.
Today, write awareness slogans to amplify these protocols. Slogans are short, catchy statements raised to spread awareness for a good cause.
Laughter that was so contagious that if it were a drop of water, it could make a barren heart bloom into a bouquet of flowers. His eccentricity stood out. Not in a dark twisted way but rather, mysteriously. I could never have fathomed him to be a church goer for I can't remember a time when he wasn't engulfed by smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his fingers or a time when there was no whiskey on his breath.
I could have easily concluded he belonged to the likes of me who were forced into this weekly tradition had I not seen him alone. Always.
He never stood in mercy or bowed in prayer. Just sat there, every Sunday morning, on the last bench during the service and stared ahead as if he was trying to dare Jesus into a trial by combat.
The gossipers whispered about him. About his dark and seemingly damned soul. "That arrogant fella never opens that mouth unless he has to be downright ghastly. Why even insult the lord by coming here at all? Brings down the atmosphere of the entire room with that foul expression." But that's what they were. Gossips.
For down at the Fusion bar, round the corner at the end of the church street, he was the life of the party. Always talking. Always merry. Always making people laugh. Always laughing.
Remember how I had mentioned that he never smiled? Well, there was once a time when he surprised me. On a windy autumn night when I asked him about love.
On that cramped porch, surrounded by empty bottles and rising smoke, I saw his blurry face look up at the dark sky, his lips curl up into a tiny, almost oblivious smile, just for a moment before blending into a smirk. A softness had flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the intense hollowness I was more familiar with.
And before another word could escape me, he took a long drag and turned all the possible answers to my unuttered question, into smoke. And then, he never smiled again.
They say he loved a nun who despised cigarettes. Hated them more than she hated his tattoos. More than alcohol. More than his impertinence. But, she loved him more than she hated cigarettes. They say, she loved him more than she loved God. And perhaps, God couldn't stomach that.
I borrowed a handful of blue sky from my last lover and his memories painted my empty sky with blue strokes and white clouds again.
The colourless remnant of my existence gained a bit of hue. My cold and dead heart found warmth again.
But the mere bliss of his memories didn't last long.The blue sky of his remained blue and mine was colorless again.
Fallen dream of us together in love belongs to me and his love only belongs to her. Life created a world for us in the past, where now I'm the only living corpse, whereas he lives in another world brimming with love.
I'm usually high on his carefree smile, though none is for me, its only reserved for her. His sky beholds her with happiness and my sky beholds our precious memories.
Now I can't find any similarities between us as we are world's apart.
//Tears are long lost, my soul is numb, blue sky is my only escape from the ache of love and there is also a bottle of rum.//
I borrowed a handful of blue sky from my last lover and saw that clouds were some enigmatic characters of a lovelorn spring, the sun rays gently kissing the outdoors and indoors are deprived of affection. My place is a grey gloomy garden gathering grassroot vintages, plucking euphoric verses lying in a corner inside those dumb envelopes, sealed to death, stamped with crux of goodbyes and hereby the funeral(s) of nostalgia I have attended, I found myself in a state resembling a torn page of Pride and Prejudice. The burlesque dancer, pain took steps alongside my heartbeats and made no utterance of the triumph over bygones.
I glued my eyes to sleep, found myself staring at frames burdened with smiles hanging on peach walls of abode like presence; My eyes, full of moisture and it is about to rain a chunk of dusted emotions longing to the sand with which my mind had been nourished subconsciously I belonged to home but see time runs at the pace of a cheetah.
I walked bare feet in nightmares to reach the threshold to apocalypse because my sneakers did not stick to my vagabond feet, the pair of it decided not to accompany my attire in nightmares. They are afraid of this monologue, the gurgling laugh of a d(evil) down deserted dreams, "monologues." I avoided this rust I am serious, I neither want to be a rusted iron nor a responding vigilant. I want not to provide necessities to despair anymore. All I want is to stay the clown I was. You know that shadows pierce the walls, like that, monologues slap on the face of fantasy. My lover had a stance of grey painted with melodies of affection. Poems, Oh goodness, I envy you. Your aura keeps humming "HOME, breathe." Past was a tall, handsome man in grey archives and is. I belonged to past, I left after few clock ticks. I left. I.
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|| I thank all the readers and the writers equally for inspiring me with their valuable posts, motivating me to write and showering wonderful compliments. I keep learning new things here everyday. Thank you so much everyone for spending your quality time here and if I have ever made you happy, that is a big achievement for me. Thank you. ||
I borrowed a handful of blue sky from my last lover and now he's wading through the deluge that had him engulfed. I lent him a bottle of sunshine, but he says it isn't enough to clear the demons from his mind. The demons he said, have taken a piece of his night. So every night as he lays baring his soul, he feels a cold shiver inside. He longs for a patch of moonshine to feed his bereaved soul. He's willing to trade my bottle of sunshine for a curl of the rainbow, truth be told. I offered him a bucket of blue sea, a mirror to behold.
Dead Souls is an unfinished work which Nikolai Gogol couldn't complete. I have no explanatory words for this poem but I think we all know how hard it is and has always been the surviving battle for writers. Such that many literary artists have to leave their art of writing. #art#wod@writersnetwork
I know I am writing after too long. Hope I am not forgotten.