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  • zylith 10h

    a dedication to you, dear brother :')

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    / Uhtceare /

    and then I met him.

    When the skies strangling 'round the linen
    to the shorelines on his hand, I find hope.
    O, that wooden drop-lid and the song of 21-corsair
    as a symphony, how orchestral....perhaps that person were you.
    today, the mariner led to his veins and what I found ;
    I find lyricsm on his left-facing larynx,
    that s t u t t e r
    somedays to retch instrumental bougainvillea, a bardic.

    it awaken the gossamers and I could clearly see the sunsets.
    A goodbye that weighing the sighs of thousands
    and letting the camera roll at the benchmark, a moment
    a moment more than memory.
    Beguiling and it fitting (in)finity....and a springside to,
    the eleventh elegance of April, 20xx had it all.

    2:04 am, I'm writing a disappearance but before that besides you I'd like walfare, as you said.
    'tis last contradict which dessicated November month and it must be winter,
    but i think it warm and welcoming and how intriguing ;
    to the intumescent fuchsia within a walk and while walking down the streets
    I could clearly see calligraphy of your childhood.

    like asphyxiated-attire I had pieces of death
    and how dearly you added artwork in that,
    I remember.
    and over and other your saying words, that comfort.
    I'd precedent hierarchy and depleting bedgasm but
    But little do you know, it absquatulate seatherny amidst that.

    so listen, you were eutony to that early hour in my backyard.

    30'nov 2021

  • zylith 3d

    @queen_butterfly tumhare liye T-T

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    ग्वालियर की गलियों से दूर एक लहजे में हम बोल उठे, "ख्याल रखना"।इस बार ना हमें मालूम था, सांझ का ना ही तिलमिलाई सी रजामंदी में उन्हें ,

    यूँ तो अब आशियाँ-ए-दिलासा लौट खड़ी, कहीं उनसे नज़रिए को शरीक़ करने के लिए कह रही थी।सुनो, सांझ होने को है और हम... हम सिर्फ लफ्ज़ बाँध बोल सकते है, "अब जाना होगा"।उनके लिबास में ना जाने क्यों जान से भी प्यारा नादान...मायूस था - दो पल को थम जाने का सोचा,सोचा कि सिलसिला शुरू होने को है - ।फ़िलहाल यह बातें मन में,हर्फ़ हयात होकर, गुफ्तगू मुद्दतों के राही चल रही थी...., सोचा एक बार सिर्फ़ उनके लिए फ़ैसले के दरमियाँ फासले ना जकड़े, अलविदा कहने से कतराते हुए बिना भेंट ही हम ख़ुमारी लिए, घर आए।
    नाराज़ हो!? हां, होना भी चाहिए।यह जानते हुए भी खत लिखकर आज की तमाम बातों को हम बिना व्यंग्य कहना चाहते हैं।

    याद है, जायज़ी तौर पे तुम्हारा जवाब हमेशा ही गलत होता मगर कभी तुम कभी हम मिट्टी के कुल्हड़ की तरह फरेब हो लेते... तमाम लोगों के बाद भी वो मिठास और इलायची का इजाफा सिर्फ और सिर्फ तुममें था और मालूम है हम हमेशा से उस कुल्हड़ को किसी नुसरत सा कोसते मगर तुमसे यह जाना , वो कोशिशों का इक़रार है।अब हम अपने से जब्र नहीं करते, कहें तो हम भूल गए थे सुकून जो तुमने दिलाया।शायद तुम्हें यह याद ना हो , हमारी मुलाकात एक इत्तेफाक से कई अधिक अश्क़ के सुरूर सी थी।माना अलविदा कहना कठिन है, पर यकीनन तुम इस शख्स की उर्दू हयात समझोगी।

    सच कहें तो तुम याद आती हो।इख़लास इश्क़ इस इंसान को इस्तेमाल करना ना आया।सोचते है कहीं कि, एक तरफ़ तुमसे कह देते....फ़िलहाल इस मुसाफ़िर को राह नसीब कहाँ।


  • zylith 4d

    Belated Happy Birthday!! @preaching_poetries

    P.s_ sorry, i missed that.

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    I've seen her
    to the seashore
    near my hometown.
    In beginning
    to bedgasm of
    late night oscura
    like a sareureuk that
    emblazone winter
    when her schmaltzy
    under the core
    of outskirt augur
    and I know she know
    the barque that floats
    to the seashore.

    that person
    with unlike skylines
    knows how a
    wooden drop-lid
    above ambridge
    makes a little more
    eutony than
    the esotericism
    of her ethics
    while corsair
    torpefied over
    and other
    the clout as
    serein making forbear,
    I've seen etcher in her.


  • zylith 5d

    wishing you a very happy birthday witchy!

    || kal ki khumari, ikhlas ishq hi
    khwabeeda harf se hayat kal ki ||

    P.s_ what I'd say, i couldn't even commuovere your vibe but i's a dedication towards witch-pen.

    26'nov, 21

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    That soothe my soul,

    like the spring, a sakura
    i saw , artwork of her last-past years
    so indispensable.
    she, tingling 'round the globe and that's what
    soothe my soul, said.
    on the orchestral of alliteration, ounce of obscure
    left-facing the liberty to love *"
    when maestral her paayal "

    delegate the death. twitterpatted, oh
    how her eighteen ;

    like asphyxiated-attire
    she, an author. augured to the kitchenette area
    of bardic. she served, a plate of poetry and
    cwtch the catastrophic segregation from scab
    i wonder, while writing
    ermine to her winter ,*

    mishap-mask, of your own
    grubbling prepossessing beneath the banyan
    ah, standing afar to her risette
    i saw.

    under the rain
    from the top of fingertips
    gumusservi reminiscence of her
    on the way, while
    sunday summer-cup
    coerced and said, she'd steadily await
    the name and over and other
    howbeit, in skies.
    how her eighteen were the words,
    out of cuts,
    an early hour across half-herself
    of hayat when skies were streching summer
    of her emblazoned emotion , fleeting so
    fragile from witch pen.


  • zylith 2w

    Like half of my whole, is pretending. I'm not tired of it but it's so alone...alone...anxiety...I'm fourteen and 'bout my brain is 'em , metaphors. My handwriting have had started morphing to blues.dammit!

    when skies were stretching summer, an aperte half a hayat, the red-wine on the brink of bardic and you know death is more intriguing than anything...I ever known. Dysthymia to her veins and an artery bout of masquerade lie briveted to the figure of speech. What if I think, I overthink more than usual, how it would be if I say I hate pink. You know, I still stutter....and in the end, it was only you.

    freaking full stop, an exclamation to death lying supine behind my larynx, you can see my bleeding wrist too but don't be nice because I don't deserve it.


  • zylith 3w

    [torpefied trauma,
    this november ;! ]

    I shifted to summer from september, it started feeling cold and it crooked up the bones more likely an eccendentesiast. I'd hide and seek perhaps. the heart was a heavy word to this memory. so this morphed down to the segregation of etcher and i prefer using unusual words, they say it amazing but dear, little do you know, i deliberately prefer such vocabulary, this depicts the night i went lost yesterday, or perhaps the person who noticed my bleeding mindset this morning. I should start comprehension of coffee, a caffeine near the touché traumatised, I'm kind of sure that'd help. I watched a movie before being lost and you know it awaited till the poem i wrote, so this summer I'd be raconteur of rain. I barely can write nowadays, but I like chanting cobalt for the hurt I make and you know I know you loved me once but I wasn't enough, I guess. I count months with the season and the ferly fault stands polarised to see the outskirt, someone yesterday went missing. Oh! I forget it is me, hehe.

    what if I overthink usual than before and it feels calm, somedays retches the rest of heart-quack that i forget to make. i heard a hurt last year, did anyone know i was about to wither and it's the feeling she had, ah it was me. when i scrutinize and gramarye in the fictions of nuisance and it resurrected. someone said, you shouldn't be like this! and you know there were more exclamations than the excitement i had.


    I'd like to die little early, the part of literature is difficult, you know. and i know i don't belong to this, i really don't like the life i have. so is it okay to say suicide? or to desire? perhaps to be honest for an hour? i drank hexadic coffee-word and i wondered if you can permit me to write today, so you hate it too! "and like a sutures to blotches of her head...fault spiralling onto the spring, as today".

    i love staring at sky, Van Gogh's vignette wasn't enough for that. I easily get tired and titled the disappointment on my side, this summer should be warm so that the sidewalks of my notebook could walk to the fressing-fairness. I have to attend school from the week after the weakness I've, and dear xxx, it reserved with insecurities i can't socialize you know. an author of hurt might be meant to write hate, right!? i reminiscence with it and along with the rain of last past. i can't wait to say that i don't believe in fate. i hate pink, it's saudade-saccharine somedays likely to be wear more probably I've reasons, there are words on my skins, the november seems fine enough to strangle. it's the dream, afraid of waking and i afraid of death so you might assume the same injury on my head as wilted writer.

    || obsessed with summer. or is it the heat, for hurt to write ||

    ©zylith, someone you shouldn't read!

  • zylith 3w

    || so this summer, she write a spring ||

    and an early hour in the poetry-city, discovery of metaphors besides an etcher who traced her town crooked in Cremona, city of lutheir. He morphed to her metaphor whilst taking a hand to make a unravel, with the waltz. Wattles behind a glade of Ghalib; orchestral on end, there were blossoms to this season a whispered for her wither.

    Upon the serein,
    I saw a masquerade coveted enough to desire
    taken in by devout to death and linnet lied,
    lied a sayonara. and over and over the touché
    Shakespeare(d) comprehended a series,
    an anecdote his ostracism, she was a summer-sin.

    'tis okay to tell that the fireflies has left,
    it snuggled in snow and the idea of love he had?
    a tinge out of sting and sutures on my left wrist & how i say this atrocious
    was the winter, he send.

    thou the firework, a heart-quake
    the rise to dream, she had. 'bout the physics,
    obsolete from the town and a center to finite fictional and you know, I, the sky; author of autopsy to the paper boat he made. Let's wait to wet the wither and he knew I know he wasn't meant to lie forever.

    for the first time to his winter,!

    someone you know.

    10'nov 21

  • zylith 3w

    9'nov, 21

    @maestral Happy Birthday!

    so I don't know from where to start, we met and waited a little longer for the winter this eventide. It's quiet cold, today and Dear Tim, is it okay to say the word I wear and embrace to core. I use maestral more than usual.

    You're good with pen, you know. Free style, Haikus, Tautogram, Pleiades, Epistrophe, Senryu, Haynaku or it might be concrete, you've mastered in all of them and especially I like the Haikus and that Palindrome you made. Gosh! You're genuinely something else, no matter in which language/genre/style you're got the same sort of accuracy in each, I'm envious of you. T_T. You have taken PhD not only in English but also in Assamese and Hindi. I swear I can never write like you. There are many things that happened, you said goodbye too....i was on a break that time but genuinely I felt bad lil bit. And also because I don't want to miss reading a great writer.

    [this is really not looking like a birthday wish, I should banish I guess]

    I wanted to write something great for you but bleh, I'm amateur. I wish you a wonderful life and baaki lemme steal your urdu, bruh. Just kidding. Be happy. Sending you sunflowers! ��

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    • |thou shalt walk with shipwreck, she made| •

    it's the dream, afraid of waking
    waking from intimacy and having
    verdant verse when maestral has left.
    a goodbye, more than uhtceare an hour
    half fortnight from riverside. i wonder & wonder.

    my melchior-mask breakout 'tis
    thy insouciant and infrastructure,
    awaited an anecdote tausendsassa
    i, an author to his hour ; a part to the
    literature ; somedays a scar without maestral.

    i afraid of death and the life he
    send to his ignorance mourn, thou
    the trend and trade and farspeak regret
    you're truth 'bout the winter i wore, the words wrote.

    there were fireworks from the
    september, i met in way to lutheir
    and the word i wore and midnight shore
    till the death dried this 12' central for personifying,

    m a e s t r a l.

    ©zylith, an ode to his heart ||

  • zylith 4w

    i am all okay, today!

    i went school and saw and sleep, amongst those students.i don't write anymore but today i want to.with words, my handwriting changed....i scrutinized and by a close look his playlist changed.i listen the same song in loop again and again and again.breathe; stifle, sounds good..right? on 13th of oct, i got to know i have mother might be disappointed on me.i cry more often now.i came to terrace, last night, only shed some more's last day of oct, today.soon this year too gonna be count.perhaps as a person's listed clueless.he said, "maybe you need love"!? i don't think so, i need intentions - you're burden - i heard it all and it hurts.there is hurt in my head, for them. [ɪ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ] it might be wrong if i didn't mention this too, i've a stain on my chest as feminity....i saw he was standing.still.behind breast, there is a heart that no longer recites skies. i hate the looks they give towards feminity; figure.i love blue - familiar - said, i need more love but why it often feels like mutual!? ah, i am not even enough to be someone's use.but i loved his idea of love .since a long time i haven't been thinking although i write, i write over and over to feel less.i laugh a lot but illegally, i read it all but i pretend i didn' favourite colour made skylines on my palms which dried on summer, i liked the month september but.i hate birthday, i frighten from the word - death - .i like dark.i am alone.howbeit surrounded with f r i e n d s.i use this word - maestral - more than usual, maybe i started writing covers my bones with warmth and i no longer had to hide my bleeding wrist.there are injuries on my knees, it showed itself up whenever i go to school, and the outskirts i wear feels more than sunflower.i wear words on my skin, and there are skylines on palms.i hate hurt but i like the idea of 'love'.