THEATRE OF DREAMS (Théâtre du Rêve)

Not the sleep I wanted,
Or maybe I did;
But the dream was negative
The shouting was sore
Even behind the window pane
For the observer, it was a bane

The fight was intense
Without any pretence
The faces were red
And when the breath was fed
Came out the words
Could disperse the herds
That anger within
In all its glory
Borderline gory

Far from mumbling
Those hands fumbling
Looking to get a grip
To hold on to it, or flip!

Unlike the girl across the door
That serene smile she bore
Writing away without blinking
So fast as if without thinking
And then she stopped
With a sudden pop
Jumping with anxiety
Narrowing her eyes
She doesn’t like to get stuck
Between the ocean and the skies.

Her lips are moving but there’s no sound
She’s trying hard but not to be found
That rhyming word where she got stuck
Lips moving, still trying but no luck
I wonder what the word is
Which she needs to rhyme
“month” or “orange”
Words worth a crime
I want to read what she’s written
To find her story which would be hidden
Hope she hasn’t drawn out a fence
And free is her poetry in all true sense.

I woke up finally
As the alarm went off timely
Trying to recall
Through the memory, I crawl
There was a man in fight
Strained and stressed, nothing but plight
There was a girl lost in her thought
Struggling with rhyme but smiling a lot

Not the sleep I ever wanted
Or maybe I did
Memories are haunted
Hard to put a lid
Have to embrace these peaceful screams
These artists performing in my theatre of dreams.

THE JOURNEY

Foreword:
I have not seen the bottom of the glass since last 7 hours, pouring before it could run out of it. Single malt or dark rum, it’s the same as long as it can get me high.
Though there have been times when I see the reflection of the bottom through the poison, the shiny wobbly bottom which helps you focus if you keep staring at it. It is equivalent of taking a cold shower for 30 minutes with your eyes closed. Yes, the thoughts are intense and pure. There is no malice against anyone, just enlightenment.
The fingers on the keyboard wait for the inspiration to strike, which can be deftly converted into words. But it’s not happening, as usual. I wish it was that simple.

THE JOURNEY

The bottom of the glass
Never seen clear, always through poison
The shine is mesmerizing, pulls you in
You stare; stare till you can stare no more
Purest of the thoughts running in your mind.

7 hours of stare, 3rd bottle on its way
Thoughts don’t end, you can’t stop
The dream becoming distant every second
Or the reality hitting hard
The girl you let go, or the girl who let you
Trivial thoughts at that moment
Now the effect is immense
The journey from a muggle to a poet
Ending up in the stare, to the bottom of the glass
Till you can stare no more
To become the poet who roamed the earth.

***

SMOKE IS DECEASED

That smoke is deceased
nothing comes back, they say
just a matter of another light, I say
though, ending plight.

But that smoke is deceased
and along with it a thousand dreams
which could have been a reality
didn't have to be a fatality
because that thought needs smoke
make the dreams dance like folk
intention strong
smoke rising in the bong
but in the thin air
dissolved, for you don't care
don't care to inhale
avoid being pale
and let those thousand dreams die
be a fatality
could have been a reality
because it's not yours, but
from the one you love
this life is leased
and had to be, the smoke is deceased
.