Category: death

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

Goodnight And Goodbye

Even when I stand tall, I’m a little man.

Even when I scream loud, I’m hard to understand.

And in my blessings, I betray gods.

A lie against a thousand truths, a divine facade.

In the darkest of days and moonless nights, I become abominable left to my plight.

Even when I live, death is a better friend.

Even when I pray, I meet a bitter end.

Even if I do good, I’ll still be a wicked man.

And when I fall, even I wouldn’t hold my hand.

© 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

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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

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

Weeping Flowers

As dark is to the night, a sunless delight, the ephemeral light has finally ceased.

As red is to blood, a crimson flood, the wounded world now bleeds.

As love is to bind, the cruel and the blind, a lullaby unto sleep.

As death is a lie, an eternal goodbye, still many promises to keep.

© Aniket More

Weeping Flowers

As dark is to the night, a sunless delight, the ephemeral light has finally ceased.

As red is to blood, a crimson flood, the wounded world now bleeds.

As love is to bind, the cruel and the blind, a lullaby unto sleep.

As death is a lie, an eternal goodbye, still many promises to keep.

© Aniket More