सोते सोते मेरी आँख लग गयी
आँख लगते लगते फिर नींद खुल गयी|
वैसे तो हम नींद टालने के सौ बहाने ढूँढ़ते रहते है,
डर लगता है हमें ख्वाबों से और यही चुभते रहते है,
इसलिए हम आँख भी नहीं लगने देते  |

पर यह कमबख्त मेरी सुनती कहा है?
चार चाय के प्याले पीनेपर भी खुली रहती ही नही,
इससे मुझे एक बात का तो एहसास हुआ,
जब मेरी नींद ही मेरे बस में नहीं है तो साँसे कैसी होगी?

जनम से लेकर मौत की गोद में सोने तक आँखें ही तो सब नज़ारें दिखाती है,
मन की और दिमाग की आँखें दुनिया में छिपी सारी विविधताओं को,
सही ढंग से सराहती है,यह एहसास दिलाती है की किस किस्म के लोग होते है,
वे बुरा व्यवहार क्यों करते है?अगर अच्छा करते है तो क्यों?

हर एक चीज़ के पीछे एक वजह होती है,
बस यही वजह जानने के लिए एक अनूठी आँखों की जरूरत होती है,
क्यूंकि वह सादी आँखों से नहीं दीखता,
और ऐसे नज़रिये की प्राप्ति इतनी भी सरल नहीं है,
भक्ति की शक्ति को ऐसेही नहीं सराहते लोग,
मंदिरों में जाकर ऐसेही नहीं चढाते भोग|

में तो कहती हु की मंदिरों में जाने की जरूरत ही क्या है?
जो मन में मैल भरा पड़ा है,वह साफ़ करना है,
भगवन के सामने मत्था टेकने से अगर सब कुछ टल जाता,
तो सारे यही करते,बिना सोचे समझे बस मत्था ही टेकते रहते|

हे भगवान..!आखिर में यह कविता ख़त्म तो करने की सूचना दे मुझे|
कलम को कागज पर अभी चलने से रोक ले मुझे..!
और न लिख सकुंगी में,
इंन्सानी दुनिया की बुराई न कर सकुंगी में,
आखिर एक इंन्सान जो हु में,
बस ढूँढती रहती हु इंन्सानों  में एक अच्छा इंसान,
जो सारे भगवानो को प्यारा हो,
और जो मेरे प्राणोंसे भी बढ़कर मुझे उससे प्यार करना सिखाता हो|

-------यशश्री 

by Muf 10:08 0 comments

Serpent queen, you live your dream of fame, 

and beauty is your game.

You've got it all, 

without giving much at all.

You won by chance, 

with no charmer to put you in a trance.

Your venom killed when your words failed, 

you never turned a new leaf even when your skin has paled.

by Muf 16:44 0 comments

मेरे बटुए में मानो मेरी सारी ज़िन्दगी छिपी है,
कुछ कही, कुछ अनकही बातों की लिपि है,
मेरे बटुए में चार हिस्से है,
पहले हिस्से में भगवान की तस्वीर है,
दूजे हिस्से में रेल्वे का पास,
तीजे में नकद है,
आखरी और चौथे हिस्से में कई सिक्के है,
जिनकी खनखनाहट हमेशा मुझे टोकती रहती है,
वो सिक्के मेरे जेब में कई दिनों से ज्यो की त्यों पड़े है,
पता नहीं क्यों इन्हें खर्च करने का मन नहीं करता,
ऐसा लगता है इन्हें बस गिनती चलू और वापिस बटुए में रख दू,
मेरा बटुआ बिना कहे सब कुछ कहता है,
खुदमें यह मेरी सारी पर्चियां समां लेता है,
काश..........ऐसा मेरा दिल भी होता,
जो हर एक को खुद में समां लेता,
सामने वाला कैसा भी हो,
बस बिना पहचाने ही अपना लेता। 

-----यशश्री. 

by Muf 10:15 0 comments

"That's beyond the point!" he spat.

"The point is beyond you!" she hissed.

They were beyond hope.

Whenever two people from the canine or feline family fought real bad, the onlookers would plead, "Stop fighting like Aloks and Janvis for dog's sake!"

Their neighbours Mr. and Mrs. Mehta prayed their daughter Sweety grows up to become a music composer so they can finally get the chance to sound-proof their apartment. But alas, she was only four, and they came to terms with the idea that in the meanwhile they'd better get used to this background score highlighted by name-callings such as 'Miss Bhindi Bazaar' and 'Monkeyface'.

During their courtship period, Alok and Janvi often went to the movies, and most often they saw Shah Rukh Khan films. They'd come out of the cinema hall, dazzled and twice in love. These days they only frequented Sunny Deol movies and then bought the DVDs, too, to secretly practise the yelling techniques and tonal inflections in private.

What did they fight about so much, one would wonder. The topic was almost always profound. Like this one Sunday when they went to the zoo and all the animals gaped with amusement and bemusement (alternatingly) as the two quarreled about the 'which colour's striped on which colour' of a zebra.

Then one fine day, Alok's mother came visiting. As she witnessed them bickering about whose head had sprouted the first grey strand first, something struck her. After Janvi requested Alok to go climb a tree, Alok suggested she should go make him a sandwich. This was followed by her asking him to go wash his mouth and finally he advised her to go jump out of the window. The third tip was delivered with such passion, thought mummyji, that a fleeting look of enlightenment crossed her face, and her experienced locks of grey shined and sparkled as in the ads.

As though by miracle, after mummyji left, things became perfectly harmonius between husband and wife. The usher at Maratha Mandir was shocked to see them after ten years; the garbage collector was thrilled at having found thirty-seven Sunny Deol DVDs in the trash (the couple immediately stepped out and picked up a few DVDs of another Sunny ;) Mr. and Mrs. Mehta enrolled their Sweety at the Tiny Tots' Engineering Prep School to erase completely the memory of the possibility of the career of a music composer; the zebra was disappointed to suddenly stop being the center of all the attention; and the canine and feline communities were outraged at having lost an idiom.

That night while eating dinner, mummyji popped into her mouth some Chlormint achaar that she'd made for her son with so much love.

by Muf 00:24 0 comments

तुम्हारे शब्दों की बंदगी हो

जिसमे मेरी आज़ाद आवाज़ हो…

तब चलेंगे हम.

तुम्हारी ज़िन्दगी के दरम्यान

मेरी कल्पना की जुस्तुजू हो…

तब चलेंगे हम. 

तुम्हारी हाँ की सोज़ में

मेरी हर ना का जवाब मिले…

तब चलेंगे हम.

तुम्हारी ज़िद की ताक़त में

मेरी सफलता की हार दिखे…

तब चलेंगे हम. 

तुम्हारी मुस्कान की रौनक में

मेरी रात का शामिल निश्चय हो…

तब चलेंगे हम. 

तुम्हारी पुकार की आज़ादी में

मेरी saaz तृप्त हो…

तब चलेंगे हम. 

तुम्हारी सुबह की आशा में

मेरी शाम मद्धम हो…

तब चलेंगे हम.

तुम्हारी ज़िन्दगी की एक आस हो

मेरी रूह की वही आहात हो

तब चलेंगे हिम.

by Muf 00:08 0 comments

Niyati Doshi
Traveller, Photo Journalist, New Zealand

A wandering soul with a wandering mind,

who is passionate about traveling and photography. 

She wants to explore the entire world before she dies;

and is currently based in New Zealand.

...

by Muf 14:35 0 comments

The Review : 

The first installment of the Shiva Trilogy, a refreshing spin on history and mythology alike, a book that will challenge your world views but not in a way that will offend you. Or it might, if you're a fanatic, it definitely will. There are some inconsistencies if you cross check with the Shiv Puran, yes. But then again, this book is not fact. It's fiction, and fiction is granted liberties. So if you're planning to write enraged comments or entire blogposts about the book, I'd rather, you stay away from it. No point generating pointless bad karma, by writing malicious stuff for anyone.

To the non-judgmental, and non-fanatical readers - it's a must read, to the ones open for discussion, read on, and comment later, and for those of you who haven't read it yet, what are you doing with your life?

The Discussion :  

One of the most hard hitting insights that come from the book is best described as a song by Joan Osborne, “what if God was one of us?” building on the premise Amish starts the book, not in a clichéd “once upon a time there lived a man…” he starts the book from the middle of an ongoing story, he starts the book with a sunset, such a powerful way to begin something with a visual that is so often associated with endings and forevers - happy or sad, bitter or sweet, immediate or eternal.  and also unconventional symbols of a beginning, of the reign of the shadows which lay banished and reduced to mere figurines in broad daylight. 

Every author has, in different ways spoken of the potential within us, philosophers philosophized about the essence and greatness of God, science talks of finding a God particle – much to the effect that God is always perceived as supreme, and unquestioningly he is, but to think that God has risen to Godlike stature for the person that he was, is in a sense, trying to understand and appreciate God for who he is, not just what he can do. Our human mind is very limited and tries to understand the whole through parts and instances, but the Gestalt school of thought rightly says, "The whole is other than the sum of the parts" (- Kurt Koffka)

In this book, everything means what it means, and also what it doesn't mean. It's a tad bit difficult to explain and understand at this point but trust me, it'll all come together in the end.

Just when you think you've got a grip on the initial battle and barbaric chaos that ensues, comes a question so simple and deep, it made me put down the book to ponder over this new thought that was planted in me -  "More of the same or different?"
And I still do, after months of having completed the book, and the trilogy. There are beautiful lessons on comparative leadership styles and crisis management, that stay true to the basics of who we are as people. 

There's a beautiful duality at play which bares an obvious facet with the Chandravanshi and Suryavanshi clan ship, which becomes even more apparent when you look at the names, one clan worships the Moon and the other the Sun. Just as the moon borrows light from the sun, the Chandravanshis are dimmer though more soothing versions of the otherwise pedantic ways of the Suryavanshis. Just like the day and night, and good and bad are two sets of contrasts, which are poles apart in every sense, yet co-dependent on each other to lend meaning to them, we cannot understand one concept without knowledge of the other. The Suryavanshis and Chandravanshis are different on the surface, but deep down inside are really the same clan, simply packaged differently.

Every story has many perspectives, that's true; but how can we be so sure that ours is the right one? or that another perspective, entirely contrary to ours, may also pull the same weight as ours does?

Another thought provoking analogy presented within the pages was the green leaf analogy, which was ordinary and special all at once - Why is the leaf green? Because it is the color of the leaf or because it is the color from the VIBGYOR spectrum that the leaf expels while absorbing all the others?

The book is peppered with such beautiful doorways to hidden wisdom which open so unexpectedly, you're almost too scared to go through them, but you do. You always do. The pages will turn, and you'll lose yourself in the book, perhaps even find yourself there. You'll find a little bit of yourself in Shiva, and a little bit of Shiva in you. 

With that, I conclude with a quote from the book "Har Har Mahadev, Everyone is a God."

That statement alone, means what it means, and even what it doesn't. Amish was right when he wrote the book in the manner that he did, on the premises that he did; Because the truth is that Gods are not born, they're made.

Review by Sonali Sharma,
Writer, Team Interpret.

by Muf 21:00 0 comments

by Muf 13:15 0 comments

Uninterrupted unions.
Desecrated remains.
Greeting by tombstones, a place to meet.

Blurred transitions, lost compositions.
Hosts deny, guests comply.
Thoughts running amok, decay impinges upon a rock.
Wrestling moments, questioning promotions.

Slow exchange of breath - a trade with the atmosphere.

Eternal suspension.
Partial existence.

by Muf 10:34 0 comments

Bombay mein bhagwaan mil sakta hai. Us se bhi mushkil hai uss bhagwaan ko aur khud ko rakhne ke liye makaan milna. Woh bhi chalo mehnat aur qismat ki jugalbandhi se shaayad mil jaaye. Kuch mushkil se hi sahi, zara ghoom-phir ke hi sahi, kuch pyaari si sadakein mil sakti hain jinpar dono or ped lage hon.

Lekin! Kisi bhi sadak par, kisi bhi waqt, aasaani se ek rickshaa milna - naa-mumm-kinn!

Image Credits - Somesh Kumar
somesh.kumar.blogspot.in

In nakchadhhi rickshaaon se behadd bezaar thi Nupur, jo aadhe ghante se beech-raste par kabhi iss bhaiyya se toh kabhi uss bhaiyya se “Versova?” poochh rahi thi. Aakhir mein ik chahcha ne badi nazaakat se apni rickshaa dheemi ki – rukaayi nahin – dheemi ki, jaise koi ladki kisi ladke ki feelings ke saath khilvaad kar rahi ho.

Nupur ka gussa iss waqt tak itna badhh chukaa tha ki ki woh tez raftaar mein jaati hui Rajdhani Express bhi pakad leti, to iss chacha ki dheemi rickshaa kya cheez hai! Teen-chaar kadam daud kar woh uss rengti hui rickshaw mein ghuskar aise baithh gayi, maano seat uska sinhaasan ho, aur rickshaa-wale se gurraa kar “Versova!” kahaa jaise apne naukar se chai maang rahi ho.

Chacha apni chaturaayi ka chaupat hote dekh naa paye. Aise binaa poochhe unki Dhanno-samaan rickshaa mein baithhne ki himmat kaise hui uski! Dono aise ladey, maano gaaliyon ki raas-leela ho rahi ho. Nupur ne faislaa kar liya. Who jaayegi bhi issi rickshaa se, aur dunyaa ke tamaam rickshaa-waalon ki harkarton ka collective badlaa lete hue, iss chacha ko binaa paise diye bhaag jaayegi!

Haan haan, yeh ladki aisi paagalon wali harkatein karne ki poori qaabiliyat rakhti thi. Ek baar shart jeetne ke liye ussne cold-drink van se ek Pepsi churaa li thi. Film dekh kar binaa ticket ke baazu wali screen mein ghus jaana uski favorite cheating thi! Yahaan tak ki uske bachpan ki bell bajaakar bhaag jaane wali aadat aajtak durust thi!

Haar maankar badbadiye chacha ne rickshaa chaalu ki aur meter down kiya. Agle signal par jab rickshaa ruki, tab Nupur ki nazar right-side wale aaine par gayi aur uska mood fatt se achha ho gaya! Baaki dinon bedhhangi ghoomne wali Nupur, aaj full Eid Mubaarak ban kar nikli thi – pink salvaar kameez, gold kolhapuri chappal, uski badi si black bag, jismein who apni saari qaaynaat lekar ghoomti thi, aur woh white wallet jo usne Varun ke saath khareeda tha. Unke rishte ki doosri saalgirah thi uss din, aur Varun usse woh wallet gift kar raha tha. Select karte waqt waise unki pasand mein fark aaya tha, as usual, aur as usual, Varun ne usse chidhhaate hue kahaa, “Haan haan, tumko jo thheek lage. Waise bhi tumhaari hi toh chalti hai hamesha!” Aur phir salesman ki taraf muddke, “ Kyun bhai, sahi hai naa?” Aur salesman bhi kum nahin! Bola, “Haan bhai, auraton ka zamaana hai. Unke saamne kahaan apni koi majaal.” Agar Filmfare mein over-acting ke liye nomination hote, toh Oscar pakka uss hi ko milta!

Aaj uss din ko thheek ek saal hua tha, aur aaj subah bhi Varun ne phone par usse sataate hue kahaa,“Haan meri maa! Meri kabhi chali hai kya?” Aaj ka masla yeh tha, ki Varun ko apne favorite director ki nayi film ‘Ek Chaandni Raat’ dekhne jaana tha, aur Nupur ko ghar hi par kuch achha waqt bitaakar celebrate karna tha. Lekin nahin, aaj subah usne thhaan li thi ki woh Varun ko surprise dekar galat saabit karegi aur usse apna mannpasand dialogue phirse maarne ka mauka nahin degi. Isliye woh theatre gayi, aur naseeb uska ki usse aakhri do tickets mil gayi! Lekin naseeb uska ki usse wahaan se rickshaw milne mein itni der ho ho gayi. Varun kabse intezaar kar raha tha uska... magar usne socha, koi baat nahin, tickets dekhkar bahot khush ho jaayega.

Chidchide chacha ne gusse se “yahaan se kidhar?” poochhkar Nupur ke khayaalon ko disturb kiya aur usse apna bhaag jaane wala plan yaad dilaa diya! “Umm.. right lekar pehle uss gate pe zara ek minute rok dijiye, main ek kaam niptaakar aati hoon, phir yahaan se aage chalna hai.”

Naa toh aage chalna tha, aur naa hi Nupur ka waapas aane ka koi iraada tha. Building ke andar jaake seedha Varun ke ghar chali gayi. Waise, iraada toh apne chacha ka bhi nahin tha rukkne ka, kyunki aaine mein unko Nupur ka wallet dikh gaya jo who bhool gayi thi - Woh wallet jo gift tha! Woh wallet jismein gift thi! Sham ke show ki do aakhri tickets.

Phir kya! Un dono ne gharpe saara din ek-duusre ke saath waqt bitaaya, aur Varun Nupur ko chidhhaata raha ki hamesha ussi ki chalti hai. Shaamko jab woh dono balcony mein khade sunset dekh rahe the, tab balcony ki do seat mein baithhe apne chacha apni chachi ko ‘Ek Chaandni Raat’ dikha rahe the.

by Muf 09:47 0 comments

"Chai par milte hain?" he finally managed, drawing all the courage he didn't know he possessed, like sucking water from the depths of an almost-emptied coconut.

He often saw her in the bookstore that he manned. For years he had believed his to be the happiest job in the world, but as her visits became frequent, he made it 'happiest and luckiest'. He loved to watch equally the joy on her face when she found dirt-cheap a book she'd been wanting for ages, and the dejection that clouded her as she put back a book on the shelf after checking the price. They always exchanged silent smiles for hello. The only conversation they ever had was books-related, and isn't that all one needs? That day as she was paying for her second-hand Faulkner and Faiz, he asked her.

"Main chai nahin peeti," she half-teased.

"Ummm... Coffee par milte hain?"

Dragging in one Chhotu to fill in for him, he walked to the nearby Sakina dairy that evening, and found her sitting on one of the two tables it boasted of. Tea and coffee arrived, but they drank from the cup of silence.

Next day as she dropped by ostensibly to look for a certain title, he asked, "Silence par milte hain?"

by Muf 09:38 1 comments

A French opera Carmen that found its first audience in 19th century France metamorphosed itself into a Hinglish theatrical production that ran its pulse through the suburban Mumbai audience of 21st century India. Helmed by veteran director Sunil Shanbag, Club Desire made its first impression with the simultaneous existence of multiple stage spaces - the glamorous Club Desire, the lusciously rugged bedroom, the coarsely carpeted writing desk and the frugally furnished formal office space. 

The scenes played out in these spaces had their own distinct tempo and shade. Adding a contemporaneous hue to the stage set was the psychedelic projection screen that served several purposes- enhance the mood, build the tempo, aid the singing protagonist’s words and show the emotional distance between characters by acting as the sms screen. Befitting to the setting and milieu of the play- a night club- was the band of boys who were a welcome change to the stage of theatre parched of live music. The lights were used strategically to evoke the alluring sexiness of the club singer, the angst-filled rendition of Chaahat’s childhood, the raving spirit of inducing DJ mix and the uncomfortable sexual tension between the lead lovers. 

The costumes became an extension of the character’s identity- silk shirt and suspenders for the Sindhi club owner, earthy cotton trousers and kurta for the Hindi poet, brightly coloured jacket for the Gen Next DJ, pronounced kurta over jeans for the young, liberal Hindi novelist and body hugging treggings for the sultry club singer.

All technical elements laid bare, the theatrical rendition leans heavily on words and dialogues to express the suppressed and unearth the unspoken. The opening scene that foregrounded the Armadillo song “I wish I could sing” apparently seemed out of context but hold your patience and it cleverly establishes itself as a thematic element in the plot. The crafty nature of the script is revealed in retrospect when this short random piece of the opening scene established the protagonist Chahat and her journey of redemption from the “catastrophe” of her childhood. The Sindhi club owner’s casual dialogues and comic hysterics too are not left alone - they are soon catapulted to a complex debate about multiplicity of languages and the dilution of identity, the cost of authenticity at the advent of post-modern lingo and the power positions and social status language can affirm or deny. This symbol and intellect laden piece of dialogue prepares the audience for a script that uses characters and plot as mere aesthetic tools to build an intellectual and metaphysical rhetoric and introspection on the very nature of life itself. While this is a laudable task, this is also where the myriad self-contradictions in the play come erupting out, if you are careful enough to catch them. In a classic “art mirrors life” parallel, a young Hindi novelist’s debut narrative about a courtesan’s theatrical journey set against the backdrop of the Indian Independence movement proposes the idea of the death of the author. 

It is Aparna production’s equivalent of toying with the idea that fictional characters take their own lives and meaning. In the context of the play, from the point of view of Chahat and the youth of today is supposed to be liberating. Ironically, the script of Club Desire has its writers and their words written all across the scenes especially when they are constantly and sometimes unnaturally made to act as mouthpieces for the core debate between words and sound, the mind and the body, the conventional and the bohemian, the patriarchal and the feminine. The moments when Chahat bursts into songs in the middle of a conversation with Jayam is a point in case. For a play that aims at challenging patriarchy and breaking the traditional dualisms of society, Arundhati Subramaniam’s poetry that refuses to categorize a woman’s identity as “either/or” is befitting. 

However, it is ironic that in order to establish an independent female protagonist, she had to be carved as a sexy, glamorous singer in a socially tabooed place like a night club. A script that is aiming at breaking and questioning stereotypes (ref: when DJ Abeer accuses Jayam of operating out of prejudices and stereotypes) contradicts itself when all its characters are built on the infrastructure of the stereotypical- the wealth chasing Sindhi, the idealistic frustrated Hindi writer/translator, the sexually active club singer. While Chahat makes a case for Gulabo’s sense of fidelity and love that is not the same as the phallocentric conceptualization of the “male” love of territorial possession; her own hesitation to partake of sexual attention and pleasure from DJ Abeer in the absence of Jayam seemed to fall into the same conventional trap it seems to defy. Similarly, the extensive and incisive word versus spontaneity, structure versus fluidity disputes- that formed the truly provocative portions of this piecemeal- falls into shallow quarters when Chahat’s songs are decorated with extreme wordiness of words in Subramaniam’s poetry. The core nature of her poetry is dependent on words, the meaning of her verse revolves around the exploration of the quantum of the English language. The poem “the heart is a verb” is a fine example of the same where the simile itself is built around comparison with words and grammatical understanding. When a character who is canvasing for meaning in the absence of language resorts to words as her medium of expression, the message can get confusing. 

Having said that, one cannot help but appreciate the courage of a production house to foreground issues of language, identity, sexuality and patriarchy by revisiting the fundamental binaries we are brought up with.

The ensemble of actors was dominated by Palomi Ghosh who essayed the role of Chahat as fearlessly and fiercely as the contours of the stage could allow. Creating the stark contrast of character and ideology was Jaimini Pathak donning the hat of Jayam, the Hindi translator/poet. Small gestures and minute actions were well directed to hold the character’s essence even through non-verbal cues. However, once the characters are set rolling into their patterns, they became set and predictable. One could not differentiate the nuances between one song to another, one angst-wrenched Hindi soliloquy from another – and this due to no fault of the actors. This is where perhaps the directorial creativity could have had the power to change and innovate.

Ron, the club owner first switches the lights on the signage of Club Desire on stage and this sets the tone and theme of this opera inspired drama- exploration of the power politics and gender equations played on the nebulous yet all-pervasive and all-powerful entity called desire. With its myriad dramatic devices and acting prowess, the play provokes the conventional and comfortable. Only its scripted self-contradictions and directorial monotony draws the line of limitation in delivering the truly liberated to its logical end.

by Muf 09:17 0 comments

There is a degree of honesty in my lie, 

my words are what my feelings belie,

If you look closely you’ll see how they fit – 

a lot better than I’m willing to admit.

There is more fact in my fiction, and more fiction in my fact,

My reality is merely a different rendition, of a universal pact.

by Muf 00:12 0 comments

Fairytale lover, where lies your heart? 
Did you put it away like a piece of unfinished art?
Or is it captive to the whim and fancy,
Of the unconventional princess called, Nancy?
She never needed saving, or so she said,
Yet everyone she ever loved always ended up dead.
Now you’re heading toward a similar fate,
Losing your heart at the very first date.
You don’t seem too smart, or else you’d have known,
She’s not the kind to build a clone.
Her art is the people she loved,
Never a portrayal, always the true essence of her beloved.

That’s why her workshop always smells funny,
And you’ll never see her squint, even when it’s too sunny.
She’s seen the light and reversed,
“I’ll miss you” – a dialogue she’s never rehearsed.
She keeps them around, you know she does.
That explains a great deal of her fuss.
She’ll love you, oh she will,
And turn your words into the design of her quill.
She’s a witch they say, casting a love spell –
On hopeless romantics who believe in the magic of a wishing well.
She was the reason cupid fell from grace,
And broke his nose from the fall on his face.
Perhaps the first cause of why love can turn bad,
is a girl pining for the boy she never had.

by Muf 23:46 0 comments

It raises its head,

Small, nebulous

But always furious

Grievous

Precious

Emerging from a hollow within me

Plunging into a hole beyond me.

It raises its fangs,

Sharp, mysterious

But always serious

Spacious

Spurious

Curious

Pushing through a dark mind

Pulling into a blinded heart.

It raises its eyes,

Keen, delicious

But always luscious

Boisterous

Gracious

Malicious

Throwing through the red chaos

Gathering into a black order.

by Muf 23:32 0 comments

by Muf 04:50 0 comments