Category: darkness

A Ghost With No Home

A goodbye lost in words, in people long gone.

I’m a lonely night at the train station waiting for someone.

In passing trees and memories, I leave myself behind.

The ghosts of my past are gazing at me but here I stand blind.

© Aniket More

Death Is Not A Poem

People often only remain in death than in life, they often remain as a resurrection of a dream, if otherwise in recurrence. When you might want to reach the bottom of the sea and attempt to, only shall you then know what it means to drown, it is only rare that one dies cognizant of the fact that they aren’t alone.

© Aniket More

Ancient Warning

All that is lost to god will never return.

All those are lost in love will never return.

© Aniket More

Umbra

Darkness soars through tired mountains, through lonesome plains.

In the blind of the night when everything has died, only the black remains.

When voices sing in distant skies, a song unto goodbye,

All the children sleep, gravely deep in their final lullaby.

The darkness grew like forests vast, the eventide an endless gloom.

Slumbering ancient tombs, rising born from its womb.

And lovers mourn in haunting tones, tones of forlorn.

The rose withered in winter unknown, leaving them a thorn.

© Aniket More

Umbra

Darkness soars through tired mountains, through lonesome plains.

In the blind of the night when everything has died, only the black remains.

When voices sing in distant skies, a song unto goodbye,

All the children sleep, gravely deep in their final lullaby.

The darkness grew like forests vast, the eventide an endless gloom.

Slumbering ancient tombs, rising born from its womb.

And lovers mourn in haunting tones, tones of forlorn.

The rose withered in winter unknown, leaving them a thorn.

© Aniket More

A City Of Promises Made But Not Kept

I wait here, in the dark of my heart, under the oak tree.

I wait here, in the ache of aeons, under broken promises of thee.

Silence overwhelms my pain so vast, endless woes, lament has trespassed.

Nights haunt me with my past, my arms open for the anomalous at last.

© Aniket More

A City Of Promises Made But Not Kept

I wait here, in the dark of my heart, under the oak tree.

I wait here, in the ache of aeons, under broken promises of thee.

Silence overwhelms my pain so vast, endless woes, lament has trespassed.

Nights haunt me with my past, my arms open for the anomalous at last.

© Aniket More

Old Gods

Sleep, uneasy on tired winds of inebriated pleasures.

Become the thin line between sacred and sunset.

Recite from the tales of abyss and forgotten years, of tyrant skies and broken ties.

Settle where the silence lies, unspoken but not compromised.

Search for the lost presence of the absent mind.

What you don’t understand is real even if you don’t belong here.

In the ruins of tomorrow when I become death shall my grave read :

‘When the pole star is close and the winds northern blow.

On my grave will then the black dahlias grow.

When the year is ripe sullen than the moonless night,

Shall I rise from the great death, darkness and I will unite.’

© Aniket More

Old Gods

Sleep, uneasy on tired winds of inebriated pleasures.

Become the thin line between sacred and sunset.

Recite from the tales of abyss and forgotten years, of tyrant skies and broken ties.

Settle where the silence lies, unspoken but not compromised.

Search for the lost presence of the absent mind.

What you don’t understand is real even if you don’t belong here.

In the ruins of tomorrow when I become death shall my grave read :

‘When the pole star is close and the winds northern blow.

On my grave will then the black dahlias grow.

When the year is ripe sullen than the moonless night,

Shall I rise from the great death, darkness and I will unite.’

© Aniket More

Hello, My Name Is Sorrow

Haunted and wounded, I sleep in my mother’s embrace.

The ghosts don’t speak to me anymore of our once golden days.

In terrible voices and tragic memories comes the black of my night,

The dark talking through war landscapes, death acts strangely contrite.

I bury my hands in the past of tomorrow,

A cue to forget her who I call sorrow.

How old is this tremor that has held me in my misery,

I leave it all behind for the world, a world so hungry and empty.

My mother, she calls to me, in sleep and lost echoes,

To the end of the land where she stands in ghastly spread meadows.

© Aniket More