THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I dream your dreams And your dreams are so beguiling, I tried to bring out realities To yours, But you were so trapped in the world of illusion. I painted a warm picture for you, To place it in your dream. The picture of a lone nymph Whose hairs are caressed by wind, Whose feet is pedicured by the easy waters, Who doesn't seem to realise the lurking eyes behind. You were wallowing in the gold shore, Collecting shells to fill your pockets While I was drowning in the water. You were the Santa, I was the lost reindeer, You were the eminent bridge, I was the glitch, You were the charming tulip, while I was the thorn, You were the spectator's choice, I was the banned play, You were a classic tale, I was a silly poem, You were a popular author while I was an anonymous poet. This is how our dreams differed. You remained in the web of colours and aura, I tried to separate you, But the trap was very sharp and strong. You remained in the symphony of verses, G

Let my scars bleed, For I am the coward of the city, I dare not to look into my scars. The hymns of evening is stuck in my throat, And I spit out contagious poison. I cannot see the scars in my body, I only see the blood oozing out, For I am the coward of the city. The land and the herdsmen ran away, The women and the children disappeared. My vanity experienced a meltdown In the battlefield, My swords and words search for a meaning. Thirsty and alone, My surroundings applause at my fate, But I demand, Squeeze me easily, my fate. Dare not to befriend me, For I'm the thorny flower in the garden. Glad that the city has abandoned Its coward, For this world demands heroes,right or wrong Who looks into their scars and Stops the bleeding. But I'm the coward, who looks into the blood. Spectral lights envelope the bloody me And guardian angels fly away, In search of heroes. As immovability takes charge of my body, The vocal chords form the last Words of

This road ends here. But as the destination beckons me, I long to return. To the long roads that smelled me, That travelled a long way to listen to many stories, To the pastoral lands that buried a thousand songs of herdsmen, To the sumptuous forests Of untold mysteries and hiding horrors, And to the orchards of lovers. As I long for the old paths, The willow trees whisper Helping the hairs to raid my ears. Seeing the destination that awaits me, I hardly seem to recognize it, My heart resists to embrace it. When the willows continue its whisper, I long for the old motels, Yearning for a way to it. But the sky seems to jeopardize my plans, Threatening with multiple invisible sounds. The way ahead seems to be weary and unenthusiastic, The sky whoops before the ultimate outbreak, It screams giving me afterthoughts, Suspicion creeps into the hemispheres of my mind, Replacing the poor creator with reason. I walk towards my unenthusiastic destination for a shelte