AMOR

                                         

AMOR—god of love, imbued with your consort, Psyche and took me to a panoptical world of opinions, and it was in a night of extravagant freedom, where I couldn't feel it was a dream in a primordial domain. I sensed as if I was with my darling soul, to whom I ever had aught of secrets to hide to launch a milky thought in the tapestries alike inner selves. The green was widened to give an Arcadian delight, and over the sky the sun was not seen with beams that unshackle the sulky, spells of life, yet, but the moon adorned with eloquent jewelry of purple as a semblance to her inward gloom and outward passion. Sweet birds were unnumbered in masses, of versatile, apparently by a rare origin as if from an old-world, in a night that gave a nine-fold strength and fancied by the deep current of emotions. Unconsciousness obeyed the wispy psyche, and of some tiresome wanting, I would, no longer the body again, when the soul was somewhere beyond the horizon. I talked to a bird of golden feathers, among the flock:

''I loved you of being sensible and curious bound and your dart capturing senses. I was a person lacking strength and waiting for a moral Courage to get in the soul, for his work, I do fly with Own world of thoughts with some aggressive nature in hope of someone who can promote me in real life. But Life doesn't seem that for me, yet''

The bird replied:

"Excited, on hearing your words o’ man, as you shuttered in yourself with pain that occupied somewhere between your spirit and success. I can bring out a reflection for you to keep—the inspiration that wanders to communicate my presence in your visible soul. It can hold you like a tendril to you only until the wake". 

The night started to darken again, more grim and the foggy clouds wandered the terrace of the unconscious world—apparent to me where I met the bliss like sensuality—or I cared the bird than it hesitated to care for me from its inner mind, with sweet refusal that still sailed between two unlike lands. And I was not allowed by mind to leave the bird because of its extra-ordinary quest and response to an aptly situation. I first though the bird lived with all the members of its family and never be fond of human emotions, poesy and arts of its appearance .Contrary to all my feelings which dragged me on and on to the streams of argent astonishment. The bird had an open view and an open mind that often longed for freedom that can even revolt; the bird was lived in its own identity and an unfolded heart. Induced by the overwhelmed passion to its colors of mind I started to yield it, for me I did and spoke to the bird:

‘I felt I wrote my views of my experience with mere encouragement I got in Earth, I researched like a wanderer does, with songs of my creation ever had and I would be pleased to give away my knowledge to mankind like my ashes I diffuse with long yearning hearts. I came to Earth with an unexpected flow and did the things as I shared to man. Come for me and think for me to sing the future’s songs that I do write’

Sudden a thunder stirred the elements above, and the birds flew along the agonized spot, where terror was outburst in that trance-like hour. The bird wanted to speak me again and said thus:  

  

‘ You are the person I searched for and I don’t know how long we can frequently talk .Life shows different shows of all kind, it does show you to me and we two unveiled our minds in a brief talk. We met in a strange night of surprise as how you invented me my mind and my feelings. I can’t come with you now but rather you can go without me and remember me in all your works that you create’.

The bird flew away towards the blue unseen that jutted like a sea of uncountable miles; I woke from sleep and searched for my love in the darkness fallen night and at least found her in a picture hung in the cracked hall of my mind!

Writers Pen

Look him, he writes in the heart of mankind, the bitter thoughts of his past experiences that urge him to make an abrupt remembrance of his pallid memories. The waning moon looked so painful for his haunting soul, which was almost dried by the exposure of sun’s intense heat. He was a blinking star-kid in the past, who cried for his ignorance and love that he never tasted in his boyhood days. Was he mixed love in his solitude — yes, he had a past with tranquil solitude, where love never had attached to his soul, than to fly for other unsophisticated regions of dark filled faces. He as a watcher of curious phenomenon’s and entertained himself in looking the gang of stars that silently hung in the vast, extended skies and dared to count them with sublime in his thoughts at starry nights. A fever always made him up normal as he was in the hands of ruffians. Something more was he was an aggressive learner who made mistakes in multitudes, both in his mind and its reflection called actions. His nerves are weak enough for fortune when his society cheered against his brat mind. He collected the sorrows’ drains as if He had to obey the false practices to fulfill a thought. Days and nights were undistinguishable for him to give a relief from the terror that trembled in his intense emotional mind. He yearned freedom and always tried to remove the shackles of customs from his hands, which was tight enough to remove its locked hook. Tangled by emotional thorn and wreathed by the asthmatic world, pathetic by the very origin. He believed memories are painful like the crack that occurred in the midst of soul, by the submissive violence. He, who wrote these hurts in a mystic book with dreams of pain, was not well to share his pen to others.