At the auction of pain

At the auction of pain,

I was the highest bidder

Begging to be flogged till

My skin wore off

At the auction of pain,

A box of shattered dreams

Your memories neatly packed

With shards of broken promises

At the auction of pain

I was the prophet of my own doom

Dissolving my visions with opium smoke

and fantasies of vengeance

At the auction of pain,

A thousand devastations'

every day, on constant

Unceasing repeat

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For posterity

--- The following is for public record for posterity and history Let them know you were here etch your names on these walls Die in the name of revolution, Industrial, or Agricultural, Political or, Sexual, Just find a cause Don't decline this invitation to your private doom, It is a limited-time offer, For all sales must end What utter madness is this? Why are you running away from this? On what list is your name on? Who did you meet? What did you talk about? Was it about me? Am I sounding too paranoid? A little insane Ignore the glint in my eye, I take no pleasure in this All I say is accept this love After all, whose love isn't a little tainted? Whose name, a little tarnished? Spill out your silences now, I have shown enough love Others here are much worse, Brotherhood and fealty mean nothing here I am here as your fri...

Its Scary

Imran Qayoom would have turned 26 this October, but a CRPF bullet and lathis ensured that the only brother of two sisters would never see another birthday. A black flag, hung over the gate of his under construction home in the Bagh-e-Mehtab area, announces silently that Saturday will mark the 40th day of Imran’s death. Imran died on the 12th August along with 11 others who were victims of police and CRPF firing on that day, the day after authorities had imposed a curfew following the death of Hurriyat leader, Sheikh Abdul Aziz during the ‘Muzzafarbad Chalo’. At the time Imran was shot he was standing on the main road along with his friends watching the CRPF battle with pro-freedom protesters hardly hundred meters from his home. His friend, Suhail who was with Imran at that moment says, “ We were watching the protesters. When suddenly the CRPF started firing from one end of the road to another end. I looked to my side and saw that Imran was covered in blood, but he was still breathing....

What remains of the dead

The bombs have gone quiet The night is still again, Holding its breath As the morning dawns Lazy rays make their way To the scattered glass and stone A bedazzling show of light Incendiary bombs, briefly, an afterthought It's an empty plane, Just like Allah has promised, On the day of judgment, Maybe it is doomsday after all! Unlived lives, unfulfilled promises Broken hearts, grief lingering on Masquerading hope, a few bits of bone And some lonely souls That, and me is all of what remains of the dead

Tasenda

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