In Wait For Tomorrow

I really do not know,if it was 'The God of Small Things',or simply the undercurrent of emotions bubbling inside of me,all I know is I wrote this with a an absolutely perplexed mind.Do leave in your comments(at the least inbox me what do derive out of it/out of me):

In the silence of the day

creeps the shadow,

Tormenting the footsteps

of yesterday.

The veil that falls

reveals the untold history

of Her destiny.

The journey ahead traverses,

capturing the tale

of the cage.

The wings that were

once meant to fly,

are tattered and the

soul caged.

Yet,the sorrow seems

too small before

The vast ocean of misery.

The struggles of the lives

before the eyes.

Concealing behind the smile,

the eyes held the secret,

that destiny converges

sorrows.

Waking up each day,

with an

unawakened hope.

With the footsteps of

yesterday.

Yet life breaks and

tatters each day.

The well-earned labour.

It seeks the very

essence,the freedom,

She has earned.

The wings are clipped,

and the soul caged,

yet the yearning to fly,

cannot be broken.

The Sun may not rise;

today,not even

tomorrow,

But it shall one day,

And when it does,

No cage shall be able to

bind the soul,

Nor clipped wings be

incapable of flight.

Yet the promise of tomorrow

cannot shatter the pain of today.

It merely is the light at the end,

The tunnel too long,

And the wings too tattered.

Though Tomorrow seems a better

place to be,

Today is destined to be learnt.

The foretold History

prophesies a broken promise,

"This too shall pass."

Wings of Glory

Far beyond the tuscan sun,

within the shanty of dreams:

Perpetuates the deeming chant

destiny pens a song.

When dawn awakens,

the soul chants,

and belittles the snag

for the journey I traverse

to short to snivel

and count the impediments.

Even though the flight is arduous,

coupled with a petrified heart,

The soul cannot be challenged,

the spirit is unwilling to bow.

The journey has just begun,

valor shall be the soul,

the wings might be tattered,

but the path of glory is mine to claim.

The Distant Dream

Frankly,when I have exams just around the corner,I am at my creative worst,so instead of racking my brain,I vent out via scribbles.If you read this,please leave sincere feedback,it is much appreciated.

Beyond the thousand seas,

the dawn breaks

upstaging the dark gloom.

Beyond the breaking dawn,

a Dream incepts.

With blinkering eyes,

and naivete soul

the new born child awakens.

Beyond the breaking dawn,

this Dream emerges

to rewrite its destiny.

Foretelling a tale

hitherto undone.

Beyond the undone,

this Dream resolves

for a World that is sheer bliss,

Gaiety is the porch,

Heaven the residence.

A Dream that roused from slumber,

stands tall in the face of dark gloom

shattering it,with its rays.

The light that shone,

The Sun that rose,

was the naivete Dream.

The persistent Dream

rewrote its destiny,

Unhindered by the mockery and jibe..

decided to set its own sails,

create its own routes,

and crescendo is its eternal friend,

and victory its sole companion.

When the naivete child awakens,

Shall I let its Dream die too?

Beyond the Tuscan Sun

When capricious and arbitrary thoughts cross my mind,I end up scribbling something equally capricious as this following poem(you can call it that!):

Basking in the sentiments,

that elude distant memories,

I promise to return tomorrow.

The sands speak a language

that is ours,only ours.

I hear the bells again,

reminding me,

of my promise to return tomorrow.

The sun creeps into my room,

veiling not the blinkers,

but the story they seem to tell,

for tomorrow is yet to come.

Tomorrow,the world shall see,

that you and me were meant to be,

Alas!today,I must retire,

for today,I set myself free.

Prism

I wrote this last week,when I had read of Radhika Tanwar's murder.The irony lies in the fact that a girl/woman was killed on the day when the world over the day was declared Womens' Day.For every complying every time,for stepping back,for becoming a woman one who is inferior from man,this is a poem for you.

Across the room

the tattered glass confesses,

the blasphemies curtailed.

under the shelter of a wound

it seeks refuge

struggling to cease the smile.

it lasts a moment

and benumbs the soul,

it lasts an eternity

and benumbs the dead.

it aspired for aspirations

that die within the day,

answers left to question the

melancholies of today.

the tattered glass

has a story to yield,

a story to confess,

Alas!the spirit dies; extinguishes

with the plea of hope.

with dread looming large

all that remains is flesh that is exploited,

all that remains is a story that unfolds,

all that remains is a tattered glass

and its dying prism.

Trajectory

Beyond this translucent dusk

the wind blows far far away,

the miles that call the distance

forever rest in peace.

Amidst the gaily and the glistening rays

the abject prowess seems to discern

the thought beyond recognition

that lasted not a while.

The sails are set

Her destiny beckons,

for tomorrow dawns

a foretold victory.

And a dream awakens the dream within

And the dreary world

forsaking her is lost in its own trajectory.