Arya Meshram's Archive

Whispers of the unending summer

I asked "what does summer mean to you?", all she simply said was "it's fine".

No, it was not just fine. 

How can summer be just fine? How can someone not love the smell of the foamy ocean crashing against the alive land? The waves forming like a bolt from the blue, and the cool tones clashing softly with the warmness of the sky. The feeling of hermit crabs poking at your toes, for god knows what reason. 

I meet my eyes with those of other strangers and their sun kissed skin, as their children climb the rough skin of the palms - onto their own adventures.

And when the dark cool nights arrive, the waves of the abyssal ocean grow to propel the unwanted visitors away from its vicinity, maintaining its gloomy ambience.

How the waves glow under the heavy moon pushing its weight onto the waters. The horizon - hiding from my sight, under the ocean or above the sky, Knowing that the sea has no beginning, nor does it have an end.

Summers like these are never just fine,

They are breathtaking and absolutely delightful.

The unvisited

Discomfort ran it's laps around my little imagination

The ardor cooked up by the summer sun,

through the window pane of the Portuguese cottage that sits by the garden

The buzz of bumbles bees working their every chore around the neighborhood,

Crumbling steps, worn smooth by the tread of time, led where

overgrown veils slid down the front door,

Lit by warm and entrancing fragrant candles gifted by people

– who remain a fragment of the imagination

The sun vaporized the significance of this place,

No one to visit it now that it is old and frail,

Disregarded -- by those who gave it life a few moons ago

Though, here I sit

Yearning to coax a flicker from the fading embers.

Unspoken

Is it better to say nothing?

When all is already said,

Not in words

But through everything little action

And every change in the wind,

Through how the face contorts

And how the quality of the voice regresses,

Shall the other one be concerned,

Concerned with the unnoticeable things

Would it be better if some words,

Hurtful and kind

Were left untold,

Rusting on the tip of the tongue,

May one find someone

For whom they don't have to claw,

Claw at the irrational what ifs,

Shall the time come when

At the end they don't have to worry whether

“Is it better to say nothing?”

Posthumous flowers

Somewhere out there

There is a painting no one wants to see,

But Someone's fantasy,

A vision of the one they want to be

Under a canopy

With their muse and life 

What they call a legacy,

Unadulterated imagery 

And when Jane doe dies

Will the art be classified,

In a museum highlighted by the floodlights

And it's meaning will be simplified 

There was a time,

The brush strokes were a result of someone's downpour,

Although it seems times have changed

For their art to be recognised, all it needed was for them to die.

Veristic Mason

One was made to be perfect,

Cold as stone like his brothers and sisters

Until being thrown off a great height

Ruffled his grey feathers 

Materialism and aesthetics had a great value

In the world of the patrons

but what respect did he receive 

For being the god of sculptors 

His shiny coat weathered,

Into the rough layer

Like the callous hands

Of the true masons that sat at prayer

If being eroded and creased

Made him rooted to humanity,

Then being a sapphire 

Costed the casuality