aubade

It's okay. We are all away from home.

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  • aubade 1w

    The river drowns itself

    Whilst the darkness swings among the stars, 
    your eyes,
    creak open,
    everyone is asleep.
    You trace your fingers,
    along the lifeless bodies,
    fly your feet up,
    and trod through the soot,
    then you thunder
    and your might trembles the Sequoia trees,
    only to come down to dust,
    your tears,
    the carcasses of
    reality.
    Everyone is still asleep.

    Trembling fingers,
    you sweep your eyelids down,
    but what have you done O dear,
    that even the dark
    has abandoned you?

    Look traveller,
    you tread on moonlight's teary daggers,
    yet you sprint,
    on your gentle feet,
    the horror oozing from your being,
    for everyone is asleep.

    Your face hits the icy floor,
    and your heart
    cracks open.
    The thick air dissipates
    distant tunes,
    float in the room.
    Take silence's hand and 
    dance through.
    Follow the melody,
    it leads you to a door.
    A door so enormous,
    they said
    that
    a thousand elephants can't break through,
    nor a million people unhinge the door
    then how could you,
    you shattered being,
    reach ashore?

    You fill your face with the brightest grin,
    and tread your firm feet inches to the door,
    a fingertip,
    and it disintegrates,
    in your palm.
    The same melody picks up its remnants,
    and takes them home.

    The curtain flutters and ascends,
    a howling wind whispers
    past your ears,
    and slaughters all
    "I"
    "Mine"
    while your blood lets out a deafening scream,
    falling like gentle winter rain.

    You who have lost yourself,
    now tread into
    into feral insanity.
    Your eyes see worlds upon worlds,
    soaked in immense brilliance,
    like
    a billion stars stitched with infinities,
    giggling in the unfathomable sky.
    Time slumbers in the woods
    on life's lap.
    Death brushes your shoulder,
    Its ecstatic eyes looking for something over the horizon.
    "I got taller" 
    it chuckles,
    running its tender fingers through your hair.
    "When my entangled soul
    frees itself from this fleshly mess,
    I shall meet you again."
    You whisper and wipe your tears,
    pluck all the worlds and bolt across
    the gigantic peaks and skim across 
    the clearest of oceans,
    to stumble back home.

    Your eyes drip with ecstasy,
    warmth cascades from your tiny hands
    with all that you carry.
    But then you fall again to the floor,
    hysteria hoods your eyes,
    your tears rain in every reality,
    and you laugh like madman,
    for
    the room
    is empty.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 2w

    This piece is incredibly close to me. A try at describing getting admitted to hospital and all the feelings of nothingness that follow.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @mirakeeworld #reposters #mirakee #pod #writersnetwork

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    Lungs of fire

    Each breath,
    an assault.
    Each breath,
    a little devil with an axe,
    dragging its filthy razor edged nails,
    along the walls of innocent flesh,
    threatening to tear it apart.
    The terror of breathing,
    and the absolute terror of not breathing.


    Courage.Will.Optimism.
    These words suddenly peek out of their hidings,
    and lure me into changing my clothes,
    accustomed to their brief visits,
    I know these little liars.
    Because,
    a minute later,
    these words are on the shivering floor
    as they bleed to their own death,
    while I weep for them,
    for that's all you can do
    when you can't close the buttons of your shirt,
    and pull up your pants,
    so instead you fall like a soft cloth into a crumpled heap,
    five mismatched buttons and pants upto your knees,
    because your lungs are suddenly in your hands
    and in your legs
    and in your stomach
    and everywhere,
    exposed and naked,
    and with each movement ,
    with each touch,
    they raise up their little hands,
    and strangle themselves
    and all you can do is
    watch and watch and watch.

    With each breath,
    I hear music,
    sweet like apocalypse.
    God,
    I hear the finest music,
    played in the depths of hell for Hades,
    I hear the bloody screams of life,
    sometimes the roar of the ocean
    or the crackling of a vanishing fire.
    At moments it goes
    stunningly quiet
    like a baby hushed to sleep,
    and I hear my heart's tiny feet
    clapping against the floor.
    I say
    "Too fast.Too fast for you."
    But do children listen anyway?
    The music ascends again
    and I close my eyes for a dance with darkness
    because my mother already took the hand of despair.

    People with sweet,fat bellied lungs
    ask me "Are you okay?"
    I grin and take their warm hands
    and let them clash with my icy ones
    And tell them,
    "Darling,
    My lungs are of Gallium
    And they are on fire."

    The day hands itself over to night
    and I find myself staring at a ceiling too white
    and too bright
    I don't like it.
    The wallclock has flowers smiling at me,
    I don't like it.
    The red bulb at the end of my room,
    I like it.
    There's a needle sucking into my veins,
    pumping gentle packets of miracles,
    I know because they enter with a 
    soothing icy kiss
    and gently caress my veins with their tender fingers
    as if telling each organ everything will be alright.
    It's strange,
    how something devoid of life,
    is the one solacing it.

    12 hours have been waved by to
    And I can't hear the music anymore.
    My lungs are now ashes
    but each breath no longer terrorises me
    Instead now each breath is like the ocean
    after a tsunami,
    gently lapping on the shore,
    motherly and pious,
    in front of the horror stricken gaze,
    of the havoc it wreaked a moment before.


    26.5 hours have skipped by,
    and life has come back from its vacation in Hawaii,
    successfully galloping into this flesh.
    A person with nice lungs tells me I can leave,
    so I gather my lungs 
    from under the wooden table,
    from their slumber on the sheets of my bed,
    and some I pluck from grief's abundant hair in the corridor.
    All the pieces fall together,
    into a perfect jigsaw,
    resurrected like a phoenix after its majestic destruction.
    I smile as wide as euphoria,
    Inhale exhale inhale exhale.
    My lungs fill up with the beautiful summer
    and now I hate the red bulb at the end of my room.
    Soon I make my escape,
    1 mismatched button
    and lungs of fire.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 2w

    A rose without a rose

    Everyday,
    I watch the rose in my garden.
    A rose that never blooms.
    Yet it is a rose.
    Is it doomed?
    Does it wail, when the moonlight
    plays on its leaves?
    Yet I go on watching it.

    Yet I,
    you,
    us,
    go on watching everything.


    I watched a person
    in an ambulance,
    I hauntingly remember,
    Oh how gently the trembling hands,
    stroked over a lifeless mass,
    as if teasing death.
    Oh how sweet, how terribly innocent,
    that infinite moment was,
    that death gathered itself beside me,
    and we watched together
    life intermingling,
    below the sky painted in fiery crimson,
    slowly and painfully,
    rowing down a timeless stream.

    I watched
    plastic men dragging
    their terrible bicycles,
    the awful creaking of their pedals
    dancing with the patter of rain.
    I watched the brutal rain
    steal the men of the sidewalk
    quietly,
    quietly,
    quietly.

    I watched
    the chaos of the falling rain.
    I realised,
    somewhere,
    a pair of eyes,
    swollen and bloodshot,
    is burning against the shivering window,
    mimicking the rain.
    Somewhere, someone prays
    under the stumbling fan,
    watching the dancing flowers,
    for the rain to be endless,
    as his mother told him,
    "the blue sky paints you in happiness."
    He sits in his silent room,
    knees up to his shoulders,
    And goes on watching.

    I'll keep watching
    with wonderful ignorance of the stars,
    the endless suffering that exists.
    Suffering that hides beneath your nails,
    suffering that slides on your wrists,
    suffering that swims in your eyes.
    I'll watch it all
    and tell you
    that happiness is a bird on your shoulder
    and
    you
    won't
    believe me.

    But one day,
    when the rose of my garden looks back at me,
    and melodies dance by my shoulder,
    you'll tell me
    that it is raining
    and I won't believe you.

    Yet we all will go on
    looking into each other's eyes,
    and someday we'll realize,
    there's nothing to do
    but watch.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 33w

    The Revelation

    Blue soaks into white,
    raw fingertips graze at the strange art.
    Some enchanted magic?
    Silence pulls up its sheets,
    as my pen journeys across the universe,
    while infinities litter on the street.
    Oh!
    This bliss of insignificance,
    in a dirtied white!

    Soon,
    The warmth of my pen
    cascades into itself,
    A faint glow descends,
    into the heart of the locked vault,
    resting in unfathomable,
    Sombre depths.
    Hush hush mother,
    Let it weep.

    The familiar ridges once again
    shudder underneath my fingers.
    Did an infinity pass by?
    I smile,
    a light breeze,
    dances away,
    whispering a song.

    Our souls meet once again,
    I gaze at it,
    Yes right there,
    at my traveller,
    and hold onto it,
    like a lost child does to
    a stranger.
    Such a shame,
    my fingers hanging lifeless,
    bearing,
    a pitiful fright of befouling the pristine.
    I smile and
    I wail.
    Howls of metal erupt,
    something ascends,
    rises up and beyond,
    The cosmos in this singularity.

    The pen tumbles and falls.
    It lies there, artless,
    in its own pooling ink.
    and the epiphany arises.
    The world disintegrates,
    Time scrapes away its flesh,
    Ashes and ashes,
    smother my throat.

    So,
    I bathe the purity in rose wine,
    blinding its haunting eyes,
    But does wine adore everything it falls upon?
    Sweet,
    Oh how sweet!
    The life nibbling along my skin!
    Little hands, little feet,
    Strangling the lifeless sheet,
    Its horror stricken gaze,
    bores right into my own,
    like the ocean beseeches the moon,
    Every night,
    to wallow in its love.
    I laugh hysterically,
    at the bizarre art,
    like insanity's hue,
    and I realise,
    maybe all this time,
    I had been a painter too.

    But
    Mayday! Mayday!
    Where has my soul run to?
    the spilled ink,
    untouched,
    is a pool of grief,
    its water runs cold at my feet,
    and I plunge myself in the search
    of what I had drowned,
    It embraces me like a long lost lover,
    the happiness of home.
    But no sooner it yanks me to its depths,
    the stones crawling on my chest,
    and so gently it snatches away its warmth,
    So gently I cry,
    So gently I fall,
    And I fall
    And I fall.

    But I rise yet again,
    From the womb of eternity,
    To slaughter,
    All roots of sanity.
    Madmen!
    I rise,
    From the teary moonlight,
    As art
    As breath
    As the essence of madness!

  • aubade 52w

    Tonight

    Tonight again
    the ephemeral whispers,
    embosom the desolate eyes,
    drowning away in
    their own
    haunting silence.

    Erupts the ocean floor,
    vulnerable.
    Tear,
    tear away the feeble flesh,
    as it weeps,
    devastated,
    terrified,
    reaches out for a last touch,
    as its lover
    dances, dances away
    kissing every wave.
    Let the ocean resurrect,
    for the wailing moon.

    Tonight again,
    the ocean
    knocks on my door,
    the one humming
    the delicate tones
    clasps my hand,
    Oh, it happens again tonight.
    The fragile time,
    pours again,
    the sweet sweet lies.
    Do not beseech oh darling,
    for a sip of ecstasy.
    Dive into those crimson waves,
    as the nightingale serenades the silence.
    Let your eyes burn,
    set aflame your lungs,
    and when you see
    the fleeting ties,
    free, free my love
    the entangled hands,
    hear those shattering euphorias
    smile to the gullible flowers,
    throw your head and dance
    in the
    beautiful,
    blossoming,
    exploding terror
    and kiss the one
    witnessing in the periphery,
    farewell,
    again tonight.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 57w

    My poems
    are not
    glasses of wine
    or
    life dipped in art.

    They are
    Layers
    upon
    Layers
    Unfathomable oceans
    of my heart's drizzle
    and if you ever dive
    deep enough
    you'll
    someday
    find a
    shattered
    coward me,
    hiding somewhere in the corners.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 68w

    Drunk

    Caesar and power,
    the closest of friends,
    Bruised in lies and oblivious to their transience.
    A thick cloud of addiction shadowed them,
    Like the snake and the snake charmer,
    The wine and the drunk.
    Caesar's heart followed,
    altruistic but cold,
    Tying both of them with the strings of existence.

    The icy mountains of power soared,
    Its top, oh so cold.
    Yet below, the lake of heart thrived, deep and warm,
    all of its depth belonging to the very dear Brutus.
    The winter marched in full bloom,
    Fear took out its whip,
    The mountain had to be moved,
    By the ones climbing.

    So it happened.
    Two drunkards thrown in the same ring;
    One drunk on power,
    The other on righteousness.
    Astray,yet both of their hearts vaguely entangled.

    Caesar lay his arms open,
    Like a sunflower awaiting the very first sunrays,
    And brutus did embrace,
    Only to let go forever.

    A thousand blows and the mountain didn't budge,
    But this one strange whisper,
    and everything vanished,
    disappeared and crumbled like a house of cards.
    A deep sense of falling,
    Down and down and down.
    The prettiest flower had finally been plucked,
    Its petals were falling,
    Deep into a chasm,
    Where the emperor awaited
    And silence danced.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 80w

    Chuckles.
    Love and affection.
    A perfect illusion.
    A utopia.
    A shattering sound.
    A gentle hum.
    I wonder how it happened.

    Was it like the wings which faded away in the abundant sky?
    Or was it like the last breath at the door of death?

    Was it like the tears of epiphany kissed away by a lover?
    Or was it like the silenced screams only the darkness witnessed?

    Was it like the rhythms that disappeared in the prison?
    Or was it like the echoing laughter in the four walled soul?

    Was it like the euphoria I couldn't embrace?
    Or was it like the zephyr that no longer caressed?

    I think I know
    It wasn't like the life that stood with open arms,
    It was like the death that engulfed.
    ©aubade

  • aubade 87w

    I recoil into the darkness,
    into the pain, that soothes me.

    ©aubade

  • aubade 87w

    The pain blossoms in her heart,
    flowers of despair embellish her soul.
    Then autumn arrives,
    and they wither away,
    like waves on the shore.
    Her eyes sprinkle their remnants,
    like silent snow disappearing into the thin air
    and she lets out an unfathomable sigh,
    as she gazes at the amaranthine sky
    and awaits the next spring.
    ©aubade