grind-mill (thankyou max sir for suggesting the title)

8’o clock sharp
stereotype classes
Then algorithms for
evangelism and masses

A paradigm designed
For emotional automation
A bio-port hauls him
To a classroom station

Survival is contagious
Is a lesson he’s learnt in time
Doctrined against
All forces sublime

The threads of thought
are more virtual than believed
The louder the tears
The lesser is the grief

But his life aint a blast
One which Jetson might just not last
For the rate of knots
Is a wee bit too fast

How far can he go?
And what preludes his end?
Is he cribbing about this rat race??
Crumbling in this trend?

The ways of his life
Harsh, they might seem
But remember, the world still has plenty
Who aspire to dream.

And a spring to begin
Or a December without frost
A slumber to last through
Would be a crime to ask for .

want to develop into a novella... title not yet decided

Gina was an ordinary british girl. She would steal a look into the bright dishes after washing them. They reflected her auburn face and added their own silverfish tinge to it. She could write, do maths and play football all of which weren’t noble occupations for a girl her age, or at least so all the ladies in her house told her. She worked in ‘the eagle and a child’ in oxford at a time the place hadn’t reached the heights, it now has. A public house , or as is commonly know , a pub , it was frequented by the writers group called the ‘inklings’, which had at some time included J.R.R Tolkein and C.S Lewis. Life wasn’t very quissential for this little lady and her idiosyncrasies of writing logical analysis or math solutions on the dusty windows with wet hands and playing ball with the street side boys after work, had gotten her into trouble more often than not. They complained about everything that she did including her hand shakes, which they said were always harder and more masculine in nature than should be. Her clothes were way too shabby and baggy. “What a waste, you have such a slender waist and your clothes never get to adorn it”, they would say.
She would ignore all that she had to and go and unite with her religion…

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by frost
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.

The she would rest in the palms of god. Less she knew that fate kept in store for her, boundless glory of a legend ,whose tales would grow as religion. She slept , unaware that the trees and the wind had already begun to sing her name as they gently wrapped her in a warm blanket , curled in which she lay dreaming Aristotle , logic and a cute boy she had served ale to today . Gina slept, for the last time as just an ordinary girl.

Lost for an eternity

A dip
in the canvas
and a mosaic builds

Traces
Of this reverie
Are enough to kill

I try to believe
But it fails to sink
A tear transpires
Retreats on reaching the brink


That corner
I stand alone
Trying to annihilate
Every memory of your tone
That forgotten porch
blinded by its veils
I plead it to
wash me in its obliterating rays

The empty dishes
The listless robe
The frolicking ants
The lightning bolt
Their familiarity
I look for , to breath into me
A borrowed life
In this transient eternity

when you want , it never rains

It was noon. I had been walking in the winter sun for more than an hour now. ‘Electric storm’ was storming my head as the beats synchronized my steps. I was in a trance, oblivious to whatever was happening around, even my own emotions. Just then I bumped into him. I shifted my gaze and began to remove my ear pieces, pretending, in vain as tears violently began to stream down my eyes betraying every bit of that projected numbness. I hated myself for letting him read my mind and I hated him more for not loving me back. It wasn’t raining and I had no excuse to hide my face so bleakly smiled as the saline tears caressed my face. He gently came forward and hugged me and I silently fell back in love with him all over again

brutal confessions

The day is fresh
Winter , yet nascent
The morning wet
Its breathing meant
To brutally
hurt a nerve
And I can ,
but lament…

I wish to stare
But the tears wont stop
I wait to blink
But my eyes feel fogged
I cant reflect
The spotlight glares
And miles away lies
The idealism I wish to bare

The lost is not
What I hope to revive
The confessions I choose to make
not just to survive
I cant care less
What the world bellows
I stand here
A culprit of my own woes