That's the poetry of life,

if you could just close your eyes and listen,

the cracking open of earth like an egg,

voices rising out of molten graves,

everything burns- we burn to die,

there's nothing for silence to say,

for silence doesn't lie.

That's the poetry of life,

moonlight skipping across terraces-

peeking through windows,

behind closed doors, darkness restless,

waiting desperately for a silver kiss-

and the one who is lost in the darkness,

sits there with a singular wish.

That's the poetry of life,

there's a station not so far away,

and it takes you nowhere-

there's a train, you can take a seat

and pretend every now and then

that you're somewhere-

no fare, sit and stare, soul bare.

That's the poetry of life,

there's a hum in your ears,

fear shall say it's propaganda,

I say it's poetry-

the poetry of chaos,

the poetry of life,

so before you take a few nails,

and crucify yourself,

remember the cracking open

of earth like an egg,

and if you chose to stay,

than rather run-

then you can always rise from the ashes,

you can forever burn.

About Prahaas:

Book veteran, 3:00 AM poet, serial font stalker, movie marathoner – a dysfunctional wannabe who dreams in ‘black & white’.