Death Is Waking Up In A Train

I often imagine death as waking up in a train.
You wake up in a white, silverish train with silver metal seats carefully arranged in the sides like an array so that they face each other.
The floor is greyish and after each coach is a small plastic tube of the same colour connecting the coaches.
You wake up and find yourselves sitting at the foremost seat of the foremost coach. The train is moving very fast and everything is shaking. There is no sound at all, except  a pleasant song from your childhood. It’s like you are wearing earphones. You glance out of the window and see familiar places passing you by, in a beautiful sunny background which is reminiscent of a pleasant weather.
You stand up and look around. The seats are almost full. Each and every person you had ever met in your life is occupyng a seat. You take a stroll towards the last coach, passing through the junction tubes, holding silver poles to compensate the shaking.
You see your mother, your father, your lover, everyone. But, they don’t recognise you. They just look at you, stare at you suspiciously, as if you are a stranger who stole something valuable from them.
And, for some reason, you cannot talk to them. You cannot open your mouth, you cannot think of speaking. The only thought that is running through your mind is that you know these people and that at some point of time, they must have known you too. And, that is all you can think of.
You continue to walk and soon reach the last coach. The shaking starts to get milder, and milder, till it stops altogether. There are no familiar places outside the window anymore, and nothing is moving either. You just see a white platform. Slowly and sluggishly, the doors slide open and just, as they do, you notice that there is no music playing anymore. There is no sound at all, in fact.
You look inside the train, everywhere. Everyone is still just sitting. No one lifts his head, no one bats her eye. No one steps to get off, except of course yourself. It’s time.
You slowly walk outside. The train doors close behind, dramatically. The platform is like any other platform, only cleaner and whiter. There are a few people around. There is a weather around, but nothing other than the whiteness of the platform is noticeable. It is like a dream.
As you look behind, you see the train going away, carrying everyone you had ever known. But, you are not sad. Both they and you have let go.
You turn back around to face the platform, and just as you do, the music starts again. You take a step forward, slowly and gently picking up your right leg and putting it down a little in front of the left one. And, just as your sole (soul) touches the ground, everything except the music fades into white nothingness- oblivion.


It’s not when things go wrong
It’s not then,
Things go wrong all the time
And, so, it’s not then.

It’s when they are fine.
When they don’t go right.
But, they are supposed to
And thus are
It’s then
It’s when a shriek inside
Is silenced by denials
When a time of beliefs
Is turned by dials.
When heads are down
And hearts are tired
Of being buried.
Of being unheard.
Of being dead.

It’s then.
It’s then.
That we fail as beings.

Our Revolutions

Us. We.
We can never be part of a revolution. We live in crowds. We shout in whispers. We see through masks. The only ones we kiss are our deaths. The only deaths we face are our lives. Our existence, our presence revolves around the same axis as our absence.
We exist in boxes, we sleep in one, we walk in one, we are sick of one. But, we aren’t gonna break one, the box, for we are scared of living without it: alone, outside.
We are desperate, sad, needy people. We are begging for a revolution. But, we aren’t gonna get one. Not that we lack ideas. No. Only none of us, no one from us has the guts to start one. We can never be part of a revolution.

NaPoWriMo Day 15: The Pendulum

There is a brief moment of rest
Before the pendulum comes to zest
Where it prepares for another fall
A terrific east or terrible west.

And that is a blind, horrid moment
Not knowing your own opponent
Left or right, future or past
A peaceful quit or violent enrollment

This is where we find ourselves
Hung in a sad, faithless blend
At one of the top corners in silence
Waiting for the wait to end.

It’s All Right. It Will Be Fine.

You’re 9 and you’re sitting on a swing,
Waiting for your life to begin,
When suddenly a noise breaks your thoughts,
You get off the swing, and on the front porch.
You father comes out and steps on the land,
And, you notice the big suitcase in his hand,
You run to him and ask him what’s wrong,
He says wait for me, like they say in a song.
You smile and look straight into his eyes,
And, then, you know he is telling a lie,
Yet, you do not stop, you just let him go,
For he is too fast and you are too slow.

Your own father left you, at his own rule,
And, your mother sent you away to a boarding school.
And, yet you do not utter a cry,
It’s all right. It will be fine.

You’re 21 and you’re standing on a bridge,
The love of your life is there on that cliff,
The bridge is too low, and the cliff is too high,
Yet, you decide to just make that try,
Mustering your strength, you go so fast,
Hoping that this impact would last,
And, at such a great speed, you leave the land,
The girl, as decided, tries to grab your hand,
She tries, but is just too slow,
And, all you say is let it go.

Despite no fault of your own, you fail,
You’ve lost your love, your efforts are vain.
And, yet you do not utter a cry,
It’s all right. It will be fine.

You’re 33 and you’re going in a train,
To meet your mother on that station in pain,
You want to take her with you to that doctor,
For that you resigned from Gamble and Proctor.
You know she just never loved you, yes,
She’d left you when you were small to a boarding test,
But, yet you return, for she is your mother,
You return, for you do not want her to smother.
And, you just hope, that you might just hear,
That she loves you, after all these years,
And, with this hope, you are getting impatient,
But, the train misses her station,
And, when you return, you had just come to part,
For your mother had already taken depart.
She’d gone and with her those words,
Of a poem, the most beautiful verse.

You’ve lost your hope, your pride, your love,
You’ve lost that beautiful white dove.
And, yet, you do not utter a cry,
It’s all right. It will be fine.

You’re 45, and you’re going on the street,
Thinking about your long due treat,
When you spot an old man getting mugged,
And, you rush over there, to correct the bug.
But, the mugger glances at you in anger,
And, as you stop, you kiss the dagger,
Your body, there, falls on the ground,
Your life, as always, was death bound.
And, people, yes, they come at your aid,
But, now, is no use for any parade,
For you are now taking your last breath,
And, no man, no girl, no child could help.
As you die, the old man comes close to you,
He examines your face and your eyes, too.
And, now though it does not matter,
He knows that he is indeed your father.

Your hope is there lying in blood red,
It is there with your body dead.
Yet, there is not a tear in your eye,
It’s all right. It will be fine.

Your body is lying there in the coffin,
And, people around it are there, standing,
Your friends, your father, the love of your life,
And other men with their children and wife.
Narrating a story of a great man,
He never cried, he never ran,
Three of them with tears in their eyes,
Come one by one to utter truth, no lies.
Your aunt, she says you would be missed,
Your mother used to give your picture a kiss,
Everyday, till she died in the end,
Says your aunt in a nervous blend.
Your love, she says she loved you so much,
She could not say it before as such,
And, she regrets it more than ever,
She regrets to have left you forever.
Your father, he says he loved you too,
And, calls himself an eager fool,
For having left you some years back,
For being such a potato sack.

And, now, for first time in years 39,
Things were right and things were fine.
Not there, if anyone, was that poor fellow,
Who had hoped for this day, since days of yellow.

Now, stand up and do not make him wait,
Find that fellow, don’t be late.
Tell him the truth, don’t hold back your words,
Don’t wait to regret, don’t wait to rehearse.
So, stop reading this poem and go there fast,
Tell him what you mean, and make it last.
Let it not just pass into another day,
Let it not pass into the sun’s ray.
Don’t let him say that dreaded line,
It’s all right. It will be fine.

A Hope

Many years from now, we will meet once again,
During the season of fall, after years of pain.

And, then, there would not be anyone,
To disturb our tranquility of peace ,
We’ll have a life, we wanted to live,
Not the one, we were forced to breathe.

There will be just us, no space, no time,
A borderless expanse of serenity
A freedom to be, a freedom to become,
A freedom to be our identity.

We would go on to talk all day,
There won’t be any right or wrong,
No hypocrisy, no complications my friend
Our souls, won’t be bind at all.

Once broken into a million pieces,
That day, a flight we would attain,
Maybe as dust, if needed my friend,
We will meet once again.

The Bucket List: NaPoWriMo Day 20

This post is for DP Challenge.

“What do you want to do?”
“A lot of things” said he.
“How about a bucket list?”
“Yes” he said in ecstasy.

So, Jimmy went to his room.
With the hope of writing a list.
Took a crayon in his hand and,
wrote his future in a gist.

Near the table, under the bed,
On the walls suave green,
He wrote with colorful crayons,
Adding color to his dream.

Bit by bit, one by one,
He wrote a thousand words,
Learn guitar, play piano,
Write poems, own a bird.

When he was done he,
Stood up in happiness,
Determined to lead a happy life,
Esteemed, famous, proud and blessed.

Sixty years have gone now,
And so much has changed today,
The room is empty,
There is nothing that lay.

No longer is there that cartoon print,
Or that old joker’s head,
No longer any furniture,
For Jimmy, is now dead.

Still the same is,
That suave green paint,
And in a familiar corner,
A bucket list, subtle  faint.

Thousand words, thousand desires,
But none fulfilled, not one,
Colors, pale and freckled now,
A bleak past, nothing done.

And, so the list is waiting now,
To be wiped off bit by bit,
For another Jimmy, and
For another bucket list.