Parables of heart

I mull over words in my head, brewing a series of efforts to break through their surfaces, preserving the right ones for the sensations of my heart.

There are many that gorgeously evoke a saccharine rhythm in stale pages. Yet are they pressurized enough to procure the caged voices that hide, in those obscure trenches of my spirit? 

I had once urged myself to pick up a few pauses and nestled them into my breaths to cease the flow of a language. Pauses had been stapled to the bare creases of my outer skin. 

Yet a moment of gentle retreat with a pen had coerced the den of blocked sentiments to spill out and thus resurrect the language of my stoic breaths

I wish for the vigour, that same erect force of words to occupy my moments of reflection and sanctity. I wish for my world to season and flower in the mush loops of phrases. The transparency of the unsaid should gleam, the sea of metaphors unwinding it over and over again, thus upholding the penance of my heart.

©Bikshya

Untitled poem

There are modest tunes waiting to release
in dots and smudges
amidst the shudder
that erupts in harsh winters

A fraction of trippers,
touring through the altitudes
of savageness,
hopes to knock against a stark sanity.
Sturdy lines of bliss
apearing henceforth,
above the fractured roads.

A stiffening armor
stroke the ragged skins of civility.
Yet a few solitary whispers
trigger a warning
to loosen the armor
that’s a symbol of unwritten dread
and beckon the vows of unity in its stead.

©Bikshya

A yearning for the lost skies

The hearts of men revive when
a speck of dawn remains behind.
Even though dawn might acquire its form under a veil, 
its visibility needs to be traced 
by those whose lives are hindered by fate. 

Thus when art lay punctured in frigid lakes,
stunned voices duelling against a jargon of hate,
men should not cease to revisit the tremor
possessed by their brethren,
for outlasted shine formulated against morbid backdrops
might cause the seasons of hate to pause and relapse.

The perpetual noise of loss would be stalled
when the picture of hope arises to meet their gaze, 
the one which the humans from beyond must provide and caress,
thus beckoning the doom of evil lores.

©Bikshya

An Eternal Trust

Gambling with the streams of joy,
I had faltered upon that one true spot
that preached a preciousness
and held on to the unsaid bliss.

Then the passing smoke
had blurred my prime regions of rest
and even though I believed
to have scathed myself with a never ending ache,
my feet resorted to a vitality
that moved me closer to that spot of calming essence

The daily taunts of life are still rolling through the horizon
but my spot is easily laid with a shine
and is holding my wobbly feet
And even if I am unkindly thwarted
by a piece of maddening taunt,
I can afford to hone my trust for
the infinite
amidst the jargon of my days

©Bikshya

A Reunion With Grace

In a jerky detour from my benevolent spaces
I have gathered a steady vigour.

In shaky regions my dreams have balanced upon a graceful demeanor
lent by precious hands.

Thus I silently roll up my futile worries,
embracing a slow moment of certainty—
a certainty of a world inside my heart
where an abundance of chaste emotions can take shape,
a world in which I can shift my focus to,
binging on an eternity of soulful love
and annotating smiles upon the few coarse paths.

©Bikshya

A spread of bluish bliss

Today I decided to pry open my eyes a bit more and absorb every essence of the world outside my window.

I have looked at the sky before and whenever I could relay to it my truest attention, I had sensed its gifts in clear sight, unhesitatingly rolling towards me— its vigour and silence piercing my heart, a subtle freedom cuddling my eyesight, something that could not be traced in daily objects.

I thought I would repeat my act of paying attention to that infinite realm above me, dig deeper into the scene. Because why not? The blue of the sky was swelling with such vigour—a shapeless spread, a daunting echo of something magnificent. Clouds didn’t dare to engage with this scene.

I surveyed the wide length, scanning for a remote corner of it that was perhaps not too perfect but I found none. It was spotless. The blue felt effortlessly tangible. Perhaps if I  willed my hands to reach the magnanimous sky, it would offer me its own, and hold my palms for eternity.

I lay thinking how a few months prior, I had lost my tether to it, numb eyes struck by a colossal blackness that could no longer decipher the blue of the sky. I can’t imagine I had lost the sky back then and everything it had to offer.

After regaining it— its essence tending to my heart once again, I can graciously praise its boundless existence. When we are struck with a dreaded realization that we have lost something forever and then it finds its way back to us, we are enormously grateful for its presence and never take it for granted. Our hearts are filled with an inexplicable joy of revival and rebirth, the vibrations of it magnifying our senses, until the colours are not just colours but living creatures with souls— roaming entities that sing and occupy our ears and hearts. I can feel the blue reverberate within me and I doubt it is just a colour for I can hear its voice and secret wishes.

©Bikshya

A gesture of regal calm

I took a slice of peace
and crafted it with a maple bow,
to set it apart from those stacks of enlarged joys
that took shape inside tumblers placed on precarious roofs.

Silence sped up,
fortunes flavoured inside lemon coloured hues of the sun,
havens sewed from the bodice of delicate buds.

There might have been an unsung mayhem in the clouds just then,
yet it strived to procure the assembled spirit
of the settled dust on loose soils.

I aimed to record those scant moments
of enhanced peace,
spinning the end of a docile rainbow while it lasted,
and offering my prayers of gratitude
to the stirring aura of lives beyond the horizon.

©Bikshya

Drawn to the monsoon dream

I am craving the ascending tone
of hued rain,
the frolicking dust stalled for a while,
chaste drizzles taming the fidgeting dreams,
swiftly moving through shaky realms,
relaying moist touches over crippled skin.

I try to furnish the heated grounds of my home
with dreams of a stoic downpour,
where every drop stirs a gentle rhythm
in caged hearts,
and forays a subtle hope of an emerging rainbow,
right after the skies have depleted their stock of clouds

—Bikshya

The heart holds a season

I remember a flushed face, a warmth growing in it every second during the peak hours of heat and during the radiant scarlet afternoon when the vibrant sunrays prowled over subdued places. People were assembling their smiles and zeal in that spot of vibrancy and light, decoding games over the hot sand, and picking at oddly shaped fries in red-white plastic plates. The height of fun could be sensed from a mile away, there had been a massive outbreak of joy and amidst that joy, a face held the expressions of the common crowd—a wonderful smile cast to it. Yet those eyes seemed affected, a murky vibe settling in the depths of it that didn’t vibe with the rest of the atmosphere. Smiles can be versatile and at times careless, not always attuned to one’s deepest spirits and hence can even be carved out of morbid realms. But the eyes tell truer stories, they are faithful to one’s cores and if there’s ever a need to determine the season stacked in someone’s heart, those oval depths can offer a view of it.

So when everything in that spirited hot realm pronounced joy, they only accentuated the smiles and vagrant laughs, missing those eyes that were so reluctant to join in. Later they held on to their staunch view that those sandy realms held the most jovial hearts, every soul immersed in a certain kind of joy. Yet their attention hadn’t processed the colour of those eyes and had missed the sight of shadowed whirlpools inside them.

Days later, atop a faint sunlit passage, those eye beheld the scene of scaling trees enunciating the breeze of spring. The layers inside those eyes shifted a bit and there began the cleansing of those dark waters.

©Bikshya

Expectations galore

I have sought a string of mellow days where I can peer into the load relayed by hindered destinies. I have threshed on the halo of the night or the tan-green spirit of the day for spawning the efforts needed to settle those expectations that multiply in a frenzy manner each time.

In the hurrying stream of thoughts where doubts pervade the highways and corner streets, collisions are likely to assail the varying flow of mind’s deeds. Directions hindered—the relapse initiated by untamed goals and unpreserved zeal of my heart— I have slipped outside time to reconcile with ceaseless expectations.

Hence I prey on reflections and lucid observations to strike a harmony with time and the flow of a life that harvests over the slow songs of nature’s abode— my mind capturing an essence of true earth.

©Bikshya