The Wasteland


This is a wasteland; the scavengers hunt on indefinite rhythms
Grounded around our erratic sun.
This is a wasteland; the nightmares we dream haunt our visions
While all our horrors are eternally spun.
This is a wasteland; its history demands no account and no preface
Hoping a better tomorrow will come.
This is a wasteland; its barrenness steady, its challenges endless,
Till our humanities slowly succumb.

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Dreaming A Watchtower


In ruins where the gallant fought, starred above
The reach of towering walls, enflaming
Spirits, Silence stands; a violet dove
Circles the Moon with lonely cries; feigning
And lying, sparks of Life that ebbed here, die
Again in memories, in stories, told
In various shades of red; all tales lie,
Lie buried in ruins while tales unfold.
Distant, distinct, ahead of where I stand,
A church bell tolls over the barren land.

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Mirror


There is someone else in the mirror, doc!’

‘What’s more to understand here? I have already narrated this story, like, a million times now.’

‘I told you already. I do not remember what made me come home early that day. I guess it is one of those things you just do not recall, like what you had after dinner two nights ago; or the colour of some shirt you happen to wear on a regular day.’

‘Yes. I did meet her on the way back.’

‘Yes, sometimes I do wake up to eat. How is that relevant anyway? How is anything before the incident relevant?’

‘Damn right I realize you are fucking supposed to know me entirely to judge me, you asshole- but I have repeated this enough times already.

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Dead Ends


What goes around comes around, in some shady back-alley in the middle of nowhere, clubbed to death and left to soak in one’s own pool of blood.

“Forensics,” she said, thrusting the coffee cup into my bare hands with such vigour that I could hardly reject the offer. “Keeps you focused,” she explained, and left with the gait of someone who has had enough caffeine for the day.

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