On the Corpse of the Cosmos

I am lost and seeking refuge. At times, at home, where everything is the same, I feel a surge of alienation. Alienation leading to the path of surreal yet complete encapsulation of illusions.

I sit down, numb everything but my forehead. It takes a while to forget the trauma of my sense. Slowly, a serene light hits the shore of my temple and I am held.
Held home, if you will.

But you won’t . So I don’t try telling people about it, I just open my eyes from the dimensions where time lacks influence on space. I open up to the world where all beings are just and lost, so I cry happy tears, knowing the reality and decay of the time.

Beautiful things are simple. Like a conversation with a friend who gets you. Although it is impossible at the versified age of human depression. But yesterday, I cried of happy tears with a friend. She could understand the light and the vision of the surreal home. So we took off to another plane and counted the dead stars in the night, while hanging out on the corpse of the cosmos.

The deal was simple, digital screens can end up in the best creative promt. We decided to let go off the entire universe, because inside encapsulation of the bent space, nothing that we are aware of really exist. Yes, the imagination led us to an inside of a dead star. It is strange and uknown to science as to what happens if someone breaks down while travelling through dimensions.

But thanks to the movie Intersteller, the virtual date got even more interesting. We visited memories in the void of that night. A few years in the broken space was funny enough to lose some tears, the good thing was that the expansion of the conscience was comforting.

It was like meditating, the wrong direction of escape but when pushed back into the realisation that it was around 2:00 AM, all we could do was smile on the broken dream.

Everything gives room for spiritual insight, its just that we forget how to smile sometimes. That one night happened for the justified carvation of these lines:

Last night, we slept on the corpse of the cosmos,
Lived a little while in her eyes,
A little in mine.
For memories and the mortality of time,
We laughed of the tears from life.



The Eternal Verse

Souls dwelling in the sun,
Their cries bleeding into crevices
Immortality imprisoned with love,
Surfing and drifting with flares while they sleep.

In the sleep of pain to forget the night,
They dream of the Earth, the allusive lies,
A planet where they can live in bodies,
Not the celestial fire, but the creative desire.

Sleeping for centuries and almost lost,
But one day, they listen to their cries,
As vibrations from the sun,
Holding the planets of deception,
Awakening through the nerves that went numb,
We all, one day, will drown with the burning lungs.

The mighty prison shall break,
And the poor souls shall pay their pain,
Karmic supernova till the universe collapse,
The mystic material of the forehead to overlap.

We shall cry in peace,
Our broken soul would heal,
Through the dead breeze,
We shall fly towards home.

Not Earth, we are not alone,
But we are one, the sun then,
And darkness now,
Home is the void around.
Mystical sound, unless the sun bursts into time,
Unless dimensions are broken down.




One Last Scream (Chester Bennington Persona Poem)

I hear more than my voice in those songs,

Somewhere, in between the screams,

A symphony would come to life and sing along.

I would stop, and wait for the wind to hit me,

But without the screams, I was alone,

So, I kept screaming till the verses came to live,

And heal the scars from the last night.

Many years and each night, so hollow,

A void within the blood, the rage I had to swallow.

With every single needle of the poison,

The blood would rush to the shore,

Where I could hold the melodious lore.

She would stay and enchant her rhymes,

But when the sun could burn the flesh,

She would die in agony of the screams and rest.

The poison had flushed my veins,

The music stayed, the blood is slowing down with grace,

Soon, I shall burn the sun,

As the ocean of the poison has overcome.


Image Courtesy: Google.








A Dream to Die 

Epigraph :

And if I were dead tonight,

where would be your first cry?

Would it be on the phone?
Or while scrambling a piece of note?

Would it be on your way to home?
Or after I am buried?

Would it be in your dreams?
Or would you drink all that pain,

and not cry a tear?

And if I made through tonight,
where would you want to kiss me

one more time?

Would it on my eyes?
Or would you just blink your eyes?

Would you peck my cheeks?
Or pull them softly?

Would you kiss my lips?
Or mouth a ‘Thank you, God’

on my behalf?

And if I faded away,
would you come to take me away?

Would you make through
the limbo?

Or would you just

bid me a final goodbye?

What will I leave behind? I ask.
And I look back in the past,

and I see nothing good,

but pain and suffering.

• Poem by Omair | Instagram: @thescribbledstories

My friend, do you know the realm of life ?

The realm holds the universe in the darkest nights,

Is it love or is it death ?

Is it the sky or the inmate jest ?

You are the feather to the realm,

More pleasing then death,

But illusive in strength,

I would cry for the only thing that rotates our life,

The very moment I get to know,

And maybe they don’t even have to tell,

Because my wings will be cut short,

I wont fly anymore, for my feather will morn,

And if it stay, why will I just kiss ?

I will fly with it to the heights in our cliche .

You may not understand my inmate partner,

But we hold a fiction note to write the realm of life,

In that fictional song, I hold a feather to write ,

The story true to the lie,

A lullaby, it will make us sleep in no time,

But when we wake up from the beautiful dream I draw,

We will be no more the same ,

We will be the realm of the game,

We will be with the one who designed the play,

So you know who we are ?

A portal to another star !

Not kiss, but fly to the place far away in our dreams,

Not waiting for death, but expecting it to wake us from our sleep,

To rejoice, my love , rejoice the need.

Link & Credits for Epigraph :https://www.facebook.com/TheScribbledStories/?fref=nf

The Mystique Creativity.

The erythemic stance of the blood,

the vibrant speculation of the eye,

the hold of a sensation through the skin,

the essence of expression from a lie,

entangling the vision of light and darkness,

through the greatest valleys of our thoughts,

here we are, wandering in the canopies of our ethos,

the believe is fading, enabling the scripts to be lost.

Human, the  discerned existence of the universe,

are lost with the calibre to create,

unknown to the fundamental element of this curiosity,

and far away from the mystical existence of the clay,

the material was everywhere, abandoning the glare,

provoking the ethos to enable its birth,

and the creation to witness their fall from the grave.

The serpent drew its poison to the light,

and we were left with the fruit, well-defined,

the fruit was the emblem to learn and seek,

but where we breath, does not justify the need,

follow to seek, and provoke the totem out of reach,

find the lost mystique , be guided to the real colour of the sea.






Inferno and the influx of Humanity

The world is onto a verge of a revolution, the one that may define and break out a new definition to humanity. A small community to a country and a country to a continent that may uphold the life of Earth is indulged onto the intrinsic defeats all over, a complex war has began and this one might not need a name to popularize the conflicts within man kind. The virtual display of world war III is predicted over  the fronts of newspaper and through the enhancement of human hamartia of the colecsed set of personal believes the plague has taken its shape and inferno shall reveal the meaning of the true space Utopia.

This hidden war is not about the loss, but the influx to the human sight. Terrorism, Euthanasia, War, Territorial conflicts and Religious conflict shall spread the plague of disbelieve and the ruins will describe the story and justify the power of human conscious, the element of thought that a homosepian grow up with and eventually depict a unique definition to every single entity.
The plague is out and it seems we cannot contain the eruption of contradiction within our conception of human enforcement. The cry of every Syrian infant , the fear of every individual living in the terror of the outbreak war, the wounds of a migrant and the struggle to develop over racism in the European nation and the rebel inside the mind of a child shaping up his views for a certain believe of spirituality amongst the darkest core of contradiction will enlighten our faiths to a Renaissance.

A revival to human instincts is near, and for the plague to reach its peak, the plan is set from the space which is dark to us , the unknown entity beyond the sky shall reveal light of awakening.


Fire was all I could see, screams got my ear ,the feel was of blood and pain immersing through the ground. I could see my mother laying dead next to me, our house burnt in the war fare , all I was left with was pain that had swollen my tears and emotions to rather contemplate any movement of my body. I could only look straight into my mother’s eyes , the blood from her body reaching my hand and I was helpless , could not move an inch or even close my eyes. I was trapped in this image, my mind ? I ? That’s me?…….

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath , I could feel my heartbeat and was relieved realizing that I was only meditating, it was bitter-sweet to find out that the past carnation method worked. I finally got to know about my origin, I saw my mother. Same as in the picture I had , the brown eyes and the fair face were the only symbols that reminded my consciousness of the illusion, reminded me of the picture by the side of my bed and hence the room. The book stated that the practice could take me into a coma , luckily I got out of the strain. Mr.Abel had already mentioned before about Serewall, the place in the north of the country which had a civil war exploiting almost every single family living there army went out to rebel yet many lost their breaths , so did my parents. The sight must have inhibited my mind and reached as the very first illusion, I looked at my hand and drew the image of the small hand I saw before  drawn in mother’s blood. I was one of the lucky inhabitants that were taken up after the war, although Serewall is under conflict and the situations had absorbed every sense of life. The Aetos and the Ornios were the two basic tribes that revolted into a life ending conflict, the city broke down into ashes. The full moon drew the consolation to the darkness I saw , I walked to the window and felt the air compelling the warmth of someone, if only I could be more , I would fly out with the wind itself. I started going against Mr. Abel’s thought of not apprehending the universal rhythm to that of the soul’s , only because I was left with the universe itself. Suddenly the wind touched my hand and left a sensation of pain. I went inside and laid with enormous pain raging through my body.