The stale sandwich

Comes a carriage in the dreary night, 

With a few servants and shiny knights, 

Sits in it two beautiful royals, 

To whom the knights and servants are loyal, 

To guard them is the duty they will do dying, 

And they will not give up without even trying. 

The royals in carriage didn’t care for the world, 

For them outside the palace was mundane and dull, 

The gusts of winds and the howling wolves,

And the moon witnessed everything, standing there aloof,

Soon, as the moon took over, 

Little from the cloud it peaked and hover, 

One royal’s belly started to grovel, 

And it indeed didn’t prowl, 

He demanded the servant to fetch him something to eat, 

The servant obeyed and ran on his feet, 

He trawled through the cages and the packed bindles, 

But he couldn’t find anything in the dreary kindle, 

And comes he running to search his own bag, 

And found the sandwich for which he had to beg, 

Worried what will happen he took the bold step, 

He ran to the price to serve whatever was rest,

The price looked at the sandwich and he yelled at his lungs, 

And his hungry belly called the sandwich dung, 

Out from the window he threw it on street, 

Where the children of beggars were playing hide and seek,

One little fella saw the sandwich in dust, 

The agony of hunger came out in gust, 

He picked it up and thanked the god, 

And joyfully they gnawed, 

The price remained hungry, and the servant got the stake; 

In his heart for messing up with royal blood’s taste. 

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The Warrior of Rage

The warrior of rage held his sword,

Lingering alone, away from the horde,

The rage of his sword sheathed in scabbard, 

Is waiting for one last victory, one last battle, 

He who remained undefeated in all of realm,

Led the army in war, holding the helm, 

He held the scars dear and rebuked the medals,

Who butchered his enemies just like cattles,

This warrior of rage who stands defeated,

Has never in his life has ever forfeited, 

His blade of rage destroyed empires,

And he never in the battle ever retires,

But now he feels the guilt of his rage,

For the heads he slaughtered in his hayday, 

Now this warrior seeks for the peace,

Who ventured in the crowd just to cease, 

This solider who gave up to gravity of his crimes,

Waits broken in the field hoping for a shrine,  

He took out the blade and removed the red, 

Though as he held, it cut, but he never bled, 

Neither does his madness nor does his pride, 

Is willing to give up and they are hungry for fight, 

They whisper to the solider, “Grab that blade, 

Destroy these fuckers, walking in pave,

These lowly mortals who defy your respect, 

These crooked insects waiting for bread.”

The warrior didn’t feel, the warrior didn’t flinch,

He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t get the hint,

This blade he holds has killed millions, 

In the name of justice and in the name of rebellion, 

His mortal self suddenly heard the flutter, 

Two wings of freedom came out from gutter,

They flew till they got tired, 

They soothed his desires, 

They mocked his rage, 

They reminded him of his debt, 

But they were just messengers, and they stayed, 

As the butterfly rested, on the edge of his blade.

The imaginary friends.

In the past I often stumbled upon the meaning of anApology. Is it that I am accepting a defeat? Or am I letting someone’s belief be proven from mine? Or is it simply a senseless social responsibility to function in the world as humans?

As my logical brain had taken most of the decision I went with the third option and I found it be working quite nicely. But that was when I was a kid. For me that time it was another word said to have the relationship intact rather than letting it die in the name of my imaginary friend “ego”.

Little did I knew that my imaginary friend would harness from the hormonal changes and as I hit puberty the imaginary friend hit it as well. Now when it came to apologize I had better excuses and I could just let them see how wrong there were. I often told them why and what I did in order to avoid the labour of my lips mumbling, “I am sorry.”

Now the imaginary friend has an imaginary friend of it’s own, the “isolation”. And “ego” loves “isolation” so much that it cannot function without it. It would often drag me out of social conventions just so the “isolation” could grew as the mentor “ego” saw to it.

Now I have, like most of humans, a childish debate but not the attitude towards apology and I am feeding both of my imaginary friends as they now control me.

– Another human

The Black Bride.

As we often find ourselves to drifting in the shade of night. I find it therapeutic to collect the nightmares and craft them into something soothing. 
I met this lady in one of my nightmares and she refuses to leave me alone, hence I have decided to write this piece as she has visited me and how the first meet happened. 
Windows shriek, the ceiling fell,

Comes the dark knight in the roomy peril, 

A headless beast breathing dark,

Staring from the steed waiting to hark,

Comes the man born from fear,

In his presence life is held dear,

With a swinging sword in one of his hand,

Pushing aside the delirious realm, 

And a shield was meant to be in another, 

But the monster is not here to get together, 

Now he stares as the red mist covers,

My shallow heart now shivers,

As it starts walking to me,

I became stoned in horrible misery, 

The monster asks, “Who are you?”

I couldn’t say a word or two. 

He asks again with more aggression, 

And he spits on my face the dark regression.

No a sight in sight only dark night claims,

My will to live and my throne of shame. 
And comes a lady before he struck the blade,

In the dark gown and a hidden face, 

She says “I am here don’t you worry

Don’t be so gloom, don’t be so weary.

He is my son, one of many,

He is here for the harmony, 

Shivering in the faith; little left in inside, 

I ask her, “are you the infamous black bride?” 

I felt her smile through her veil, 

Then she commanded the monster to flee,

She came near and I saw her skin, 

Darker than night and darker than sins,

Smooth as silk, glistening like stars, 

In the bay of coal like the sparkling char,

She leaned, I felt her skin against mine,

The clocks then shivered and didn’t chime,

She held my face in her hands at last,

I found the misery and joy of my past, 

In her eyes like a show from some play,

I saw myself from the hollow bay,

How I was saint in one of eyes, 

In other, How my sins painted the void,

Her lips then moved and refused to speak,

She plucked my lips and I was still,

I felt the divinity entering my soul,

My soul packed bags and was ready to go,

From limb to limb it collected its belongings,

And waved a hand to the throngings, 

My soul was ready to depart from myself,

And the lady kept it on the top of her shelf. 

My soul asked her, “Have I paid my ridiculous debt?” 

She smiled simply, “Hence your vessel was at the of kiss of death.” 

The curtain call- a poem

Before the stage are those who laughed and mocked, 

With their tilted heads they judged and they cocked,

We held our head low as they went on,

We knew that time that this time will be gone.
We are not aliens, we are the society’s missing attitude,

We don’t fit in, we don’t need to,

We play our games and we follow our rules,

You may cut our branches but not our roots, 

We have what you lost while you grew up, 

In the hope of beauty when you throw up, 

We lie on our beds and we laugh at your face,

We laugh how the society has caught you in the cage. 
Insane, inane, we have many names,

Knights and queens and pawns of the game,

We breath and eat just as you same, 

Yet we are dealt a different kinda pain. 
You find yourself in the eyes of other, 

We smile at ourselves in the broken mirrors,

We use the strength among us as whole,

Come on call again,”nerdy asshole”
We are the V as in Victory’s might, 

We are the wings of eagle’s flight,

We are not broken or shattered at all, 

We are preparing for the curtain call.

The depth of plan. 

..”You see Daniel, I was staring in the hole. Those eyes were staring back at me. I swear to god it was not fake. I am not making this up! You gotta believe me!” Said Pamela pulling Daniel’s collar. 

She claimed she had seen her father on the night before yesterday. Who is in prison awaiting his fate to be announced any day and see the world smile one last time from the gallows pole.
“No no, it cannot be sweetheart. There was nothing down there. We did it. We survived that hellhole. Now no one can touch us.” He remembered how hard it was to pull out the skeleton from the grave. As he waited and waited along with the moon, from the gravestone.

“But I saw him! I swear to god! I watched him crawl out of Mum’s grave.” 

Annoyed Daniel hissed at his sister as she went on and on about the episode she had. Maybe she is schizophrenic or maybe the guilt is residing in the Depth of heart, gnawing it slowly; spitting venom at her reality. 


She was surer than the moon that watched over them that night. Yet her own brother was questioning her sanity. She tells him that after they were done digging out the corpse of their mother she watched their father crawl from the grave, he stood next to the gravestone, touched the engraved name and kissed it once before turning his head and fixing his gaze in their direction. 

This is what she has been trying to make Daniel believe, but Daniel was as stubborn as his father. He says nothing was there, they simply dug out the grave, took what they were looking for and drove off. 
It is a possibility that he saw him there as well, but his conscious already knew that the father has been displayed in the public execution. In reality both of them have the gift of watching things that can be either divine or horrendous for normal populous. They see things that are there but the brother discards them as hallucinations. 
Pamela says, “Why don’t you believe me!? You must have seen him as well. Didn’t you? You saw him, right? Why the hell are you denying that! You saw him and I saw him what the hell is happening!? Is he okay?” 
“Look Pam, father.. ermm.. has been executed 2 days ago. The trial was over I just needed to have that ring removed from her finger. Something about it came up after he was executed.  Now if we can prove he was innocent then we can live off well for the rest of our lives.” 
“but didn’t we frame him to take the blame?” Asked a surprised Pamela. 
“we did sweetheart, we did. But you know he didn’t leave anything to us, she didn’t leave anything to us. Both of them donated everything they had. Him to that whore and her children and she did to that foundation she was working with. In the game of becoming great they left out lives deeply scarred. And this!.. this could be our chance! You can go for your modeling career and I might even start something close to a business. But we gotta stick together, we cannot prove anything if you or me say anything about father being visible to us. They will call us crazy and we will lose the case. We need to be strong..” He leaned in for the kiss and his lips parted from the sweating forehead of hers. “We need to be one!” 

Broken heart.

Broken heart, torn apart, in this world of promises,
From lies to stories from agony to glory,
There isn’t a chapter written without glossiness.

There came many in the miserable life of mine,
Few stayed in Sun, few backed me up, few refused to incline,
Without the heart, I was torn part, in this world of promises.

Just in case..
if I die, if your tears recluse and shy.
If your heart as well deny,
To be a witness of the memories we shared,
To jerk off the knot we tied,
To be a wolf in the sheep’s hide,

You should put a stake in your heart,
Come to my funeral without drifting apart,
There will be cake, there will be wine,
I’ll be waiting in the casket of mine.

copyright © Philosophical Pen

Song of greed

We need the exuberance of youth,
We dance to the piper’s flute,
We seek what we see,
We do what we preach,
We sow the seeds of hate on our youngs,
We chop off the different tongues,
We teach are kids to be great and brave,
We seek young hands to be enslaved,
We teach our child, that god is one,
We forget the lesson when the war is sung,

All of this is humanity’s creed,
But at the plead,
We want to be freed,
But we will never be able to satiate our greed..

copyright © Philosophical Pen

One little rose.

Red and green slightly above the granite,
Blooming in the mirth of sunlight.
Two colors uniting, shining as glace,
One little rose is guarding this grave.

In the rain, in the rain, when the sky wails,
When the night and day become a jail,
When the gardner of garden forgets this place,
One little rose guards this grave.

In the time of Autumn, weather of the bottom
when the flower is forgotten, in the heap of cotton,
When the garden itself will refuse to embrace,
One little rose will guard this grave.

When the relations of deceased will be perished,
When his memories will no longer be cherished,
When the world will not remember the buried case,
One little rose will guard this grave.

In the torments of storms, in the winters long borne,
In heat of the summer and the bird’s song,
When the memories will be just a phase…
One little rose will guard this grave…

copyright © Philosophical Pen

The man from hell.

So I have descended on this dirt,
What these puny humans call planet earth,

They seem to fight for which religion is peaceful,
They are idiots in my eyes thinking it’s dutiful.

Oh how it is pitiful, how will they learn?
They lose the love and money they earn.

They waste million in war, none in redemption,
They teach kids to hate, not the education.

They are hypocrites in every sense of the word,
Their lust and greed will devour this planet earth.

These idiots will not learn that Gods won’t need them,
Gods never asked them to raise a gun.

God if wanted he could demolish them in snap,
Yet they yap in his name they trap.

They fight in his name, they fight for the fame,
They forgot his children and got indulged in game.

Lucifer need not to annihilate them and descend,
They are all Devils they will soon end.

copyright © Philosophical Pen