Pieces of Love...

Let there be some ashes
let there be some salt from the shores
let there be someplace where the beasts
of head can work their chores...

Well the fracture in gratitude,
the pieces of love flying with the many winds;
He just wandered amongst the carrions,
he bound in chains, sings...

One more piece of love,
flies across the sands and fire...

One more piece of love,
sinks in the criminal torpedo...

Mysterious, the hate, and the scorn,
mysterious, the nuisance of men,
mysterious the simple pieces of broken love
and the minds of aged men...

Let there be some fliers,
advert the subverted cries,
let there sound some voices,
subvert the prejudice...

Let there be a video,
a song for the pieces of love...
Let there be an artist,
who stuck the broken things...

One more piece of love,
lying on the road...

One more piece of love,
hidden by the town...

There is a lot of time to think,
there is a lot of time to die,
there is a lot of time to defy,
and be lost alone in the gale...

There is a time for staring,
and a time for gazing past,
it is not the same time,
where perverted are the rhymes...

One more piece of love,
crawls under the skin of night...

One more piece of love,
stamped upon, on the busy road...

The tears of lonely lives,
mindless gawking at empty clouds,
dumped under ages of lies,
another piece of love - broken in time...

There can only be so many piece lying around,
and still I find a new one, all the time...

One more piece of love here,
after all here it lies...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Death of a Butterfly.

A tearful eye, at the fall of a butterfly.

I am heart broken, for today, a yellow butterfly bid goodbye…

I am much sad, laden with a heavy heart,

There is no joy in killing a butterfly…

I killed for I heard the thud on my helmet’s side,

On the black road, where vehicles swift, passed me by;

I wore it to protect me, from the dust and tractor’s tire,

And so, I abetted an innocent crime.

Tell me what joy one could find when,

Tractors don’t hit me, but a yellow butterfly…

 - Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Whispers in the Dreams...

And while there stands a countenance well received and content,
the turmoil underneath oft goes unnoticed...
Is it a gift, to bear witness to such trauma as none can see?
It is a gift to be so sure of nothingness, and have no calling?
Is it a gift to be unnerved by the meaninglessness of our mundane pursuits?

Or curses be these which one should hardly receive?

One doesn't see beyond the curtains of success,
yet some see and remain in denial...

One doesn't see beyond the immediate gratification,
yet some feel and numb it with pain-killers and gluttony...

One can see all the depth,
and all the darkness,
and in Nietzsche's words something sinister surely looks back...

You simply can not converse with death,
and feel alive at your daily tasks...

What is it to be a man?
What is it to be alive?
The cause, the effect, the dream, the ambition...

All but not with-holding the strands of time...

If at all I can see a dream come true,
there is yet one dream to dream and feel alive,
the dream where in paradise of true love and flowers,
you sit and watch upon the canvas of nature,
the artists dance away,
paint their ideas,
and in those ideas,
the experiences rest,
and you in front,
marvel...

Such wondrous life can be in the briefest of moments,
but that has far too often been lost in the busy deliberations of the day,
and oft afternoon you rest,
sipping expensive coffee,
come home,
listen to everybody's woes,
yet see no escape from a disturbed sleep...

Often in those moments a song puts you to rest,
and in dreams someone whispers,
There are many poisons in the world...
None more scarier than ambitious dreams...
None more vile than obsessions over themes...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Preying on Your Smile...

A lonely boy standing,
His back against the wall,
And there is a lone vulture absconding,
Waiting for its prey to fall…


Now hear his sound, oh people,
And learn from this wolf-child,
Who spent his days discerning,
Whats in it for the wild…


You may stop him from screaming,
But you won’t forget what was silenced and held foul…


There is just so much different to do in this world,
Yet we linger with our smiles, longing a different life…


They wait for you to reach your prime, my brother,
So they can cut you through the side,
They wait like that lonesome vulture,
Preying on your smile, oh brother,
Don’t smile…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Seized.

Here in the deepest of chaos, I lie,
mute.

Just a harmony, submission, and patience.

The willful angst, and the anxious wait,
come pain and allow me to slither in your arms.

Mother, I wait, mother I wait,
I wait.

I am patient,
and I can see.

Humbled, yet repetitively used, 'I' still.

Grander designs, I see,
I witness the follies,
and believe I am what I see.

What I feel...

Still, synchronised, I sleep,
and dream,
mother, I wait.

For the embrace,
wrongfully seized.

Universe.

Drenched by the very air,
clouds hovering, smooth,
peacefully...

Through the hollow bamboo,
nature blows its flute,
birds,
wood stock,
small footsteps...

Twig breaks underneath,
wriggling ants,
tirelessly flowing fog,
mist on the wood's resting bed...

Mud and leaves make no difference,
all is one, clouds beneath,
rain under,
winds all over...

Open, open, open wide,
fall upon the ground...

Eight, the shooting stars,
seven the nectar,
three the leaf-less trees,
two the minds,
half demonized,
half angelic,
and a single soul,

throughout...

Universe.

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Celestial Fantasies...

The naked stars imagined,
with rested beauty of celestial fantasies,
were but dangling onto a thread of myth,
or was it just me,
too sober,
to ignore the beauty,
and worry of basal bloops?

Mystery,
entrapped in the skilled weaving of the web,
and how can a hunter escape,
inept as he was,
in - from the web woven across his sides,
laterally and more so bound,
he waits...

Something is wrong,
the distortion far too great,
and mess far too simple,
and where but solution within his head lingers,
like the stars
dangling from a rusted sky of no moon...

Yet, suddenly,
he wakes,
looks at the brightening skies,
he wonders where was the light,
when he wept last night...

The dried web, lies tattered,
and he bemused,
takes off to the mountain top,
from where with a orange courtesy,
bloodied orb rises...

While returning from his sunrise,
fore noon,
he chances a sight,
a sight which pauses all time,
and all that seems to pass,
he finds a frail white bird dangling like Floyd's albatross,
yet with motion,
flapping wings,
moving nowhere,
rooted to the spot in the immediate pale sky...

Was it beautiful,
or just a plain marvel,
he wonders...

He wonders what really is beauty,
that stimulates,
then he ponders on the sky,
where gravity defying -
hovered a bird,
and turned back...

Darkness had returned, and with it,
his shackles and his ties....

He mourns the day, he wove,
as the ghost of web had never passed,
ever haunting the bland night sky,
and he looks up again,
beyond the contour of darkened leaves,
and there lie,
the celestial fantasies,
falling one at a time...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Ode to Nothingness...

There is nothing...
Nothing to seek,
nothing to find,
nothing to explore,
there is just nothing,
nothing of nothingness...
There is no haste
nor necessity
to chase,
to wanton,
to desire...

There is no meaning,
no answers,
no equations to solve...
There is no beginning,
there is no end
that a man's mind can contemplate...

There is no God a man can define,
there is no Aadi,
there is no Anth,
there is but only
fluid consistency of nothingness...

True peace exists,
without conflict,
without doubt,
without question,
without struggle...

Trust,
peace exists with nothing,
and nothing with nothingness of mind...

Honestly,
there is no haste,
nor necessity
to run behind anything,
because there is nothing,
just plain silence,
of a mind
with no thought
and no feel...

~ Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Desolate Verse...

Desolate chambers,
With pictures, ghosts in mind,
Chamber sleep to the silent music
of the woman who seems to be in pain,
And I wait, slow drumbeat,
Thunder, storm,
Come, Come fast!
And I shout, mute silent scream,
Inside, with a small thirsty knot inside,
Words flowing unto the brink yet falling,
As though water in a low pressure tube,
Hollow cough, drought,
Intrigue, and the flow pauses,
You wonder, dried hands, emptied isolation,
If your fight, in that struggle,
it is isolation you seek,
Music flows seamlessly,
In a strange and distant song,
And in the clouds of smoke,
You sit pondering…
Life passes by…
You stare, vacant eyes,
Vacant voice,
Desolate life…
Desolate chambers,
Desolate lie…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A Verse through Closed Eyes...

Single needle lay,
pierced into the womb of a grassy flower...

Its petals - the flower - green flowing blades,
curled around the edges,
in the soggy bed.

The needle, four faced, tapering to a lethal piercing
had a rusted grassy head,
moss collecting on the fringes by date.

The smoothed head of the nail,
bald and filled with crumbs of rust,
reeked the stench,
the foul discards of an ancient crime.

The blades were alive, thriving petals
of the grassy flower...

It was the womb blackened with the rusted blood...

The tilted nail, still shone, wreathed in a wretched smile...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Diamond Lotus

The cage of pale steel
rose from the white marble ledge;
the hook, clawed by a fearsome hawk's talons,
sprung up wings of the fairy's tree.
The twigs of the emerald leaves curled, folded
and flapped in unison,
flying the cage to 'Freedom'...

Freedom - the Diamond Lotus fountain,
had a single flower; at the centre
a big fat diamond, spit little diamonds in a watery spray...
Closing petals of white marble, ceramic and clay,
folding deaf, pale - to the 'Dark'-ness...
And the ore's heat at the furnace,
got the Lotus petals, the light to face, and spread wide...

What 'Light', Haah!
orange shadows of flame!
What cage - but freed, or thought to be,
beheld the Diamond Lotus,
white petals opening a bloody red canopy to the burning sky-sea -

eaten with a Lava spoon...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

And they sang the world is our....

Jumping from the boulders lining the muddy fields,
paddy green and half soaked in water,
the grasses - lush and shimmering the glow from the skies...

The knicker-wearing boy pauses, and his flying paper kite drops,
all one sees is limitless skies,
white whipped cream and yoghurt strokes on the sun burnt skies of blue....

In the roads,
tarred and warm on coldest of nights,
gusts of wind beneath the concrete, whip across the faces,
as speeds across - the motorcyclist,
hands numbed to the greyscales of mind...

Pausing by the hearth,
one goes back to the moments,
the mud,
the rusted bars on a breaking building,
and the dried leaves by the side of granite graves,
covered under - the stench of a dead carcass...

Morning turns to night,
night to mid-day,
and in the sound of the grasses,
and in the smoke billowing out of the chimney of memories,
in the dream's tavern,
the boy with the knicker sits...

Kite is torn,
plastic lies about,
the greyscales mix in a tinge of green,
cold tar by the hot gusts,
and night is forgotten,
the motorcyclist finds balance,
cool water by rusted iron bar,
in an empty graveyard by the side of a field,
a little distance from road,
on the muddy steps,
sitting with the grasses lying about,
a cold wax pool,
remnants of another night of cold wind,
and life within,
while they sang that the world is our...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Silence and Lighthouse...

It is a poet's epiphany,
the silence mute...
It is a sailor's shore,
the silence mute...

It is the greatest music,
it is the purest love,
it is the sweetest nectar,
the silence, mute...

Long forlorn winters hide in the spaces of mind,
hidden passions, and fears
engulf, capture, and chain you...

The tides hit,
storms crash against the walls,
of a lone light-house,
that jailed you inside...

The motion stops,
you drown in its bowels,
when death comes knocking,
you find silence mute...

Running hitherto inside your chamber,
pirates clambered the stormy seas...
One guided by the lantern,
standing tall,
other jailed inside,
the burning walls...

Both die of drowning,
for that is the end,
both find the silence,
in fashioned dispute...

One in a cell,
and other on the sea,
both end the struggle,
with a silence - mute...

The light-house stands...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Moth's Tale...

Delightful as a bee scented to its flower,
flew the moth...
Creatures wild and big walked across the alleyway
and he ran through the marketplace, stealthily...
The moth followed
flying in frenzy,
flapping its wings, into the thin marketplace,
and he followed, ever silent,
stopping every time she glanced a look back,
hoping she would walk up to him and talk...
Ask him those questions,
but she would stop,
probably in expectation,
or in disdain, he couldn't tell what...

Alleys grew thinner, and distance seemed to grow larger,
there came many moths, buzzing,
and the song of the crickets and other insects,
hummed sweeter than his voice,
or so it seemed to him...

He tried to sing, but croaked like the old frog
jumping at the doorway, only to be swept away by the merciless dame...

He stopped, as the crowd grew thick,
the moth flapped those wings ever so slowly,
and the croaks lost in some distant evening music,
probably an insect, or of those bigger more beautiful creatures with richer plumes and coloured tail feathers...

Subdued by hopeless thoughts, he knelt,
only to see the struggling moth,
with bent wings and a harsh note on its song...

He got up, turned the last alley, from which she gave a fleeting glimpse teasing him to push on...

The song came on louder beyond that din in the distant corner,
he made a mad rush...

Moth's wings gave a last fight,
and once they reached against the wall, they saw,
a dainty nest perched on an unreachable ledge,
she sat there,
crickets croaked the tale of happiness,
and in the sunset, with its colourful plumes,
the bird showed off,
and she sat in their embrace,
smiling...

Beneath, in the alley corner,
he sat, tired moth flew no more, rested,
in the dark space where no light reached,
and wrote, wanted to walk back,
but had strength no more...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Eddies...

Wings of heaven,
oh carry me along...
Tired, destitute rest forlorn...

Eddies have flowed past,
reaching an ocean,
and the moss collects on stoic stones...

Slippery thoughts have yielded,
no direction, currents flow deep down...

What will the drops of water know,
struggle they may, but the stream is too strong...

And bereft, of its perceived sweet,
the tasteless drops reach the salty shores...

In waves of madness,
these eddies lost...
Moss grows greener,
on the stoic stone...