Silver Crusader

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! – H.W. Longfellow

Lucifer’s Den

Go to hell was banished a living man again,
He looked down, depth and abyss,
Scared as he was in his heart and hand,
Hell he knew burned like death.

At the gates he saw swathe of devil’s guards,
And a burning fire churning all souls,
Going in he could see no more,
Magma, hot out pouring on the surface.

As he walked in din and chaos like the city he lived,
Shouts and cries, pain and agony,
Did he now know them all ?
Walking past he could see.

What ? Are they poets, oh noble souls of hell,
Keats, Tennyson, Shelly, and lovers unknown,
Sitting with coffee in their hands and smoking cheroots,
Poets guild biding their time.

Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf hands on their heads,
Scribbling on the ground of fire,
Letters burning like a hundred thousand suns,
Cigarette smokes around in air like hues.

Black angel why did they make this place ?
To banish all who did not grow old,
For years may roll, but their souls,
Lead mortals into our own place.

Ah there comes Lucifer the master of deceit,
The beholder of vanity the non existent fore,
Welcome dear for this is hell,
Of poets and lovers and letters unknown.

We serve coffee, cigarettes and Tennessee whiskey for sure,
To eat we had nothing but why shall you need it anyway,
For why do they call it hell ?
To burn in longing away form the world.

Why the poets ? What wrong did they do ?
They loved real, a mortal, not the divine,
They have been left here to wither in time,
While their lovers shall sit in the Elysian lawns of nectar and pleasantries.

What is their deed with you fallen angel ?
No deed, do you think I would heed ? came his reply swift.
They will lie here till they reconcile,
That love a mortal and you shall lie here in hell.

Love the divine and grace shall rise,
For beautiful as hell looks, it sure is hell,
And heaven is what they strive for,
Look at his dress, ah is that Shakespeare ?

No my dear, that is a company for you.

Red Sky

This morning the sun shall rise out of blood,
Reeking violet warm blood like it’s own son,
Blood red dear beautiful,
Blood all around splash covering the pall of the vanguard.

This morning the moon shall leave in tears,
Tears, lost, dejected, seldom waking,
The calm slumber lost in midst of din,
Watery eyed it rose shall depart with eyes filled.

The stars unaware shall peek and leave,
Stars twinkling brilliant,
Leaves of pages beautiful as always,
None could ever smudge the letters over them.

Lying awake the wind shall wait,
Wait to turn against the ship it sailed,
It will not head against the lonesome road,
Wind you moron, will you destroy them homes ?

- Nishant


​​In this cold January morn,
There lies a colder self which hides,
Shivering at the thought of it’s own decadence,
Bound by resounding world view.

Unmisted with shades of you or I,
I wish I could just walk by,
Or disappear maybe,
But not hung out to dry.

Dry but away from sun,
Burned in winter’s urn.
Tossing and turning in unwelcome thoughts,
​Can I not think just of now ?

I wish when the morning comes,
I sit by your side,
Hear you chirp and light the world sunshine,
Free me, I beg.

Autumn’s Incarceration

Imprisoned, enmeshed, enchained the leaves tremble slow,
Across the ends of the trees lined along the pavement,
A strange coterie of thoughts and bodies,
Awaiting autumn to liberate life and soul.

Autumn sits in his ten foot cell,
His eyes half closed like the buddha awaiting emancipation,
A calm demeanour of the storm within
Grappling and drowning his very own existence.

November knocks at the sun’s pall,
Sobers it, dries up the rattling breeze,
Flames of willow the whips grow from the windows of the ventilator,
Like a forgotten stream of epiphany in a maze of embellishment.

The child of dawn shies past the gates,
Autumn beckons, “Come, sit”
Oh capricious fervour of yesteryear, when did you settle,
As an arrow off the bow he flies away.

At his heels the neatly combed young day,clang the bars with his stick,
The rods strike, of the prison, holding down the prisoner Autumn,
He sees around, away to the pale wall, destiny enshrined,
Codified, but unread unfolding with a blinding light.

How many hours passed ? He knows not as the doors gently open,
The evening in her gown of Evian muslin slips in,
Full and bright like the moon tonight, she sits beside,
And lo, he turns his eyes to see her disappear in the night.

The darkness touches Autumn, unending depth of pristine love,
He cannot see the night, but smells the purity in time’s prison and bars of years,
And wrapped in his aura of divinity, stands up,
November harkens to its liberator’s footsteps as he walks out of the cell.


Moving Out

Take your frames and photographs, your crumpled stained shirts of yellow and crimson,
Take away these awry arid dreams of unwelcome hours and piled up longings,
Take away your timeless, untimed watches, cell phones and batteries,
Take away everything that you do not hold mine.

Gently as a child, chided and left to wake up in the dark of the cupboard,
Where he dozed off after a real nightmare, I get up, to pick the last lying loin,
The silence of the bright florescent screeching, take me I am yours,
I lay again, sinking and thoughtless into the calm sea of nothingness.

I thought, I could not, but I did not, for it never came,
The thought, where I would think of the things I left behind,
Empty boxes as empty as the promises made out within the four walls,
Slices of thoughts left at the corridors, as marks of foot, the extinguished cigarettes.

But then all I could see was the rushing crowd, the maddening noise,
The smiling goodbyes at the railway station, the clenching pull of the engines,
The gurgle of the gushing vacuum, and the tracks, as far as I could see,
Tracks, endless.

- Nishant


Asphalt road screeches at the sight of a rubbing tire, tired and tried.
The just and fair sedan comes to a halt, The tired traveler comes out in his crooked hat,
Wondering if the road went short or he drove too fast.

He sees the long endless road,
Starting from nowhere to nowhere,
In the midst is the tired unwelcome traveler,
He could see his bones tremble with the thought of rest.

Tonight he will have an ale, or two,
And a girl or two from the darkest alley, On the suburban town he will stop,
And try to feel the human left in his soul.

But every time he gulps and enters the woman,
The more distant the human goes, the animal died long ago,
Westward he thinks he will go, or so,
Till he finds the human or maybe loses his soul ?



Where do you wish to go Julia ?
For if I hold your hand, you forget your direction,
For if I sing a song of love, it suffocates your breath,
For if I do nothing, none you become.

What do you want to do Julia ?
For if I be your lode star, your compass fails,
For if I steer your ship to bay, your sailor soul cries,
Water or earth what is it that you wish for; my friend.
For if I give you one, for the other you yearn.

Why can’t I see you Julia ?
For now I am not sure if you are real or just an ordeal,
Every word that you speak turns away a key from a note,
Of a song I long forgot.
For I hum the tune I know not.

When do we cross ways, Julia ?
For it seems to be landscape of a town deserted, where we wait,
For the rail just goes ahead, relentless, stoic.
For the tracks that run together, do cross at a change of direction,
For if only I wait for long, will we be Julia ?

Of travelers and learnings

Of travelers and learnings.


Rigid as a stone, the wind strikes by,
A small rule an inch in a million years,
I erode,
Each passing day, or gush if you say,
Takes away the one I knew.

Thunders and rains have lifted the grounds,
Thrown me away and aback from the rippling sounds,
And each passing drizzle or the lightning’s chord,
Tears away the soul in which I was born.

Seasons come and time flies,
Though I still sit somewhere aside,
The useless rock from a different age,
Where is it going ? When shall this end ?


A forlorn ship crosses the Mediterranean into the wild and open sea,
The waves too seem to see the face of the man who set out to be,
For with friends and foes and deliberate woes,
He sets out to greet the land, surrounded in the entrouge.

The room is lit with the best of lights,
Champagne and wine and whiskey to everyone’s delight,
And mutton and stew and soup and caviar too,
And then there is a murmer all around.

“But what did he think ?”, asked a lady in red, Mrs. Goose,
“Oh he says the lord acts in strange ways”.
“What lord, what words, his actions are insane”.
“Yes that’s what I hear, he is losing it, they whisper in the quiet”

“Oh look there he is, smiling like a fool”. said the prudent Miss Wildberry,
“Where ? What ? It’s all his luck and will wash down too soon”.
“Hello there Miss Wildberry and Mrs. Goose, I hope you are liking the view.”
“Dear me, what a lovely party”.

“Must I admit, it was delightful to have you here,
Please take your bags and jump into the sea.”


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