Kumar Parashar

Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister
I read somewhere and I think to myself how fate was so kind
The experience I have had in the years of my life untold and unsaid
But I would like her to know she is always on my mind
...

The spirit of travelling haunts me
For neither I am the emissary nor the traveller
But since I am here and it bounds me
I have to walk though I have no stamina
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Knock knock! Who is it? 'Sheen Thompson' she said.
'I am a tourist from far away land, Hampstead'
Her pink and dry lips were longing of water and
Her curly hair so delightfully covering her head.
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O urvashi! Yore I yearn to wit thou
Wax we yearn and wax we quote
I hath so many things I donst speak
Of the heavens and earth I wax weak
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I killed a man today, did not know his name
I did not know his history, I am the one to blame
I searched his pocket for grenades and guns
Found a photo of his three little children having fun
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Station to station, it pauses but never stops
Running forever on those shiny steel blocks
The engine whistles and the train always goes on
Tracks of steel shall never cease forth and beyond
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Lonely and alone, what my life has become
Shattered and broke, the day is to come
Dark are the days and darker the nights
Lonely and alone, lonely are these dark midnights
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A shot at happiness is all I wish for, is all I need
An attempt to smile from heart, on my lips that bleed
A desperate try to rise above sorrows of past
To ease the pains and the poises that last
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On the parallels of air I breathe, I cease to see the world in me

With passing of beat inside the very heart I wish to feel like brie
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In darkness and despair, he uttered to answer a prayer
'Let there be light', in Genesis, the black ends with dark slayer.
The words conversed to mere mortals and disperse
In ages to come and ages went by, they bloomed and dust
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In time to come
The emptiness of failures
Of life in dark
Will turn into cocoon
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Beauty is in the man who succumbs to the inevitable ends.
The beauty of relief and the beauty of the final breath.
The unmatched splendor of the quality of concluding transcends.
Tell me o life! Is there anything more beautiful than death?
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Who is a poet? A pen which is articulate in expressions?
A word which cold uplift humans from state of depression?
A phrase which could imagine the petite in its majesticness?
A symphony which has the power to remove sightlessness?
...