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  • muskan_11 3w

    Reality burns under the guise of deceit,
    A lie dwells in all the corners of the street.
    None to look, find and speak the truth,
    Like a puppet, In a harmonic motion
    follows the rhythm of a baseless belief.
    In the abyss of despair, from blue to black,
    Pain becomes the creator of scratches and scars.
    Caliginosity of the night, the only witness,
    stands and speaks about their buried wrath.
    Where are they now that often come like fireflies,
    And speaks about the stars and the moon?
    Where are their fairy tales and folktales
    which did they use to tell those innocent groups?
    Don't they see that millions of people
    are now living on a sand slope?
    Their bodies now more like baked bricks,
    Hopes like icicles hung from the roof of a heart,
    melts and drips in the ocean filled with broken parts.
    Their feet like an inching tape, measures
    the distance between all the social plates.
    What to serve, what not to and what has served,
    Now clearly they can see all the splitting curves.
    Anonymous they are but in large numbers,
    Is this a mathematical question,
    where a zero twists and becomes infinity
    In the form of a social disorder?
    Yes, it is a farrago of half-truths people are gulping,
    It's a fight between zero and those numbers.
    In these expanding concentric circles,
    with thousands of beliefs and myths they live.
    They pray for the end and curse the beginning
    As if a wrong shot hit the wrong target.
    Their mind crosses all the long streets
    and wears just one thought, to reach home.
    Their heart runs like engines on those platforms
    Such is the starless sky where
    their nightmares are their own living.
    ©Muskan

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    Concentric circles

  • muskan_11 3w

    Starling murmurations,
    Under your golden canopy,
    Such a breathtaking view
    See my beady eyes.
    Their patterns, unison,
    Twists and turns,
    makes me wonder
    of how the real world runs.
    The ones inside my windows
    Keep dancing to their beats,
    As if hypnotizing them
    to see inside, their true dreams.

    Venus's Girdle,
    Look! The sky is blushing.
    Thousands,
    of starlings like lovers,
    flying and singing.
    With wind their wings
    Call out each other,
    What an incredible display!
    My heart skips another.

    Like clouds,
    Their mammoth creations,
    Commence and conclude
    infinite stories,
    as if drawing the maps,
    to reach your mansion
    and sing to you
    all the incomplete stories.
    ©Muskan

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    Starling murmurations

  • muskan_11 3w

    Empty benches are
    memory holders,
    where past lives like
    dead leaves, present
    cook fireless dreams
    and the future expects
    a new story to breathe.
    where the home of my mind
    is under construction,
    taking cement of lessons
    from stories to stay
    at every junction,
    where detective birds are
    capturing unseen glories,
    behind the mask of
    innocence and my
    mind is attracted
    to this emptiness,
    enjoying every sip of
    sentiment but then
    I wonder, If it is a home for
    emotions and memories,
    where my heart
    is writing its stories?
    Is it hiding in the home
    of clouds where umpteen
    emotions are buried,
    or in the river, measuring
    the depth of its suffocation.
    Perhaps, it is somewhere
    near the home of my mind,
    a space between two
    benches, where people
    come and go but do not
    stay for long. Yes, that's
    a home, a perfect home
    for my fragile heart.
    ©Muskan

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    Memories and memories, regrets and regrets.

  • muskan_11 4w

    It's been six years since you left,
    Didn't you feel like to give a visit once?
    Far from the dust of city,
    You left for a search of the gem,
    Knots of inspiration you left,
    but, without a goodbye thread?
    You stood on their expectations
    But what about your this friend?
    So many promises and plans
    do you remember any of them?
    Let's wait for the right time,
    Right time to shake hands,
    But all I see is now just a screen
    connected with those 26 alphabets.

    Nicknames? nicknames
    Always create something special,
    Something unknown, they say,
    And I believe, I believe
    every word they lay.
    Remember this?
    One of the reasons we met.
    Yeah, that flashback! That flashback
    still makes you smile, I bet.
    From my broken words to healed ones
    I still cherish those moments
    and bows down to destiny
    for such a beautiful present.
    - Muskan


    Dedicated to Shubham

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    You were right, age is just a number.

  • muskan_11 4w

    Should I crown the 'silence' around me?
    With closed windows, I search for liminality
    'Twixt the chaos and peace.
    Melody of the wind wakes up the sky,
    The locust's chirrup sounds sweet tonight,
    and there I see, the silence smiling at me.
    Do you like nights too?
    The celestial sphere
    spangled with stars is your home?
    Your simplicity touches the peak,
    Waxes and wanes of waves
    bows down to touch your feet
    But you just smile and sleep
    like a child in her mother's dock.
    I admire your presence,
    Like a companion, you listen to my stories,
    Sit beside me to soothe my pain
    and kisses my voice to reflect the same question,
    Do you like nights too?
    Oh, so this is how the silence speaks!
    It holds patience
    And welcomes clamorous crowd,
    Follows the path of equality
    Such a dust-laden air it holds without any partiality.
    Yes, I should crown the 'silence'
    One must know what power it holds.
    Without weapons and words, it
    fights and speaks the loudest lies and truths.
    ©Muskan

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    Do you like nights too?

  • muskan_11 5w

    I look for doors and windows
    to shut and open --
    My thoughts are dying;
    Kindly show me the way
    To the land where born and unborn
    shadow of yours
    lay beside the bales of hay.
    Sometimes I wonder,
    Of your presence and absence
    like a sky gazer exploring the bright-dim stars and their numbers.
    Such efforts are pipe dreams,
    You are impossible to reach, they say.
    You come and go, as you please!
    Like a moonbow lives for night and moonlight,
    Such a known stranger you are,
    Unintelligible but sweet.
    I look for those riddle filled poems
    to read and write --
    My thoughts may live;
    From words to words
    I keep connecting to your rhythm,
    but nothing stays.
    Two terminals sometimes they seem
    like asking for a connection,
    But line by line it becomes an n-sided polygon.
    Then, I look for calculation
    to reach the end and breathe --
    Again neither you nor your word stays
    And my thoughts go for a peaceful sleep.
    ©Muskan

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    A stranger

  • muskan_11 5w

    The cycle continues,
    debates go viral,
    from region to religion
    guilty or the victim?
    holds the same deadly virus.

    The daily count of the victims
    rises up like a hot mist,
    burning hopes inside
    like their feverish bodies.

    A few to listen, hundreds to talk,
    but no one knows
    how and where to stop.

    From miles to miles,
    one walks for a return,
    from food to water,
    one dies in a fear.

    The daylight and time
    are being robbed,
    seems the darkness
    has rolled along.

    The uneven streets,
    the beds of death now,
    Sirens and silence
    both haunts the crowd.

    Emotionally, financially
    mind reads the
    breaking points,
    pollens of dust
    blocks all the other sights.
    ©Muskan

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    (Lock)
    Down

  • muskan_11 6w

    It was
    a broken wristwatch,
    with a silver band,
    acrylic crystal housed by
    a blasted finished case,
    and was surrounded by
    the unidirectional rotating bezel.
    My thumb was tirelessly rubbing
    to clear the dirt off the lug part
    but to clear the dirt of the graves?
    it never was an easy task.
    The hour hand and
    the minute hand
    were nearly overlapping each other,
    the calendar window inside,
    was counting their last breaths,
    knew the end was near.
    End? It was the eternal love.
    The crown was stuck with
    the power of remains.
    But the crystal was badly scratched
    like their hopes, hope to feel
    the warmth of the next sunrise.
    Past is like those old classic
    paintings on the
    white wall, which looks for
    the pristine hearts,
    Who can purely understand
    the art behind the shades
    painted from blue to black.
    This is how the pain is painted.
    The walls silently screams
    the tale of the broken watch,
    sings the euphonious melodies
    of their eternal love,
    and becomes the sacred precinct forever.
    ©Muskan

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    A Bro_ken Wristwatch