Apocolypse Hanging from Eden

Apocolypse hangs from the deepest root of the most fruitful tree of Eden called the Verse. Within the verse, the branches pierce into entirely different worlds. The branch that is held on by Apocolypse leads to the world of Humans. God’s favourite* creature, humans.

Apocolypse would admire the human civilization so much for the faith they derive from the world that is unseen. He could almost sense their faith in Eden. Apocolypse being the fruit of the giant Verse, the ultimate reality of all seasons that determine the shaping of many worlds.

When Apocolypse was born, his innocence was driven to the nerves of the Verse and to the ground of palace that held the entire natural enigma. The idea was to let him hang as the mortal hope of humanity. The encapsulation of life into the pigment of Eden was the only immortality and the human world was gifted with Apocolypse, a being that could fall for the faith of men to be complete.

He was born with the first bite of the so-called forbidden fruit. ‘He’ is not a man to undertake a sexual orientation, but the purpose of humankind.  It has been a while and humans have grown distant from their own faith.

Rest assured I don’t know. This is where my conscience dies.

In the hollow sphere, near the forehead of each human being, a lake resides inhibiting the music of Eden and the reflection of Apocolypse. People often refer him to God and why not, he is the biggest implication of God’s thought for the humankind.

When you get the currency called time. Invest some faith in yourself, so that Apocolypse can smile and reside. When the currency is all gone, Apocolypse will put your world to sleep and the Verse of God intake the entire universe in its hold.

We shall be one.

*Favourite because of the conscience, the love was always the same for each creature. There are no differences when it comes to the unity of this synchrony called God. Religion themselves grow into the evil instinct thinking that there is any discrimination.

P.S- THE FEATURED IMAGE IS NOT ONE OF MY CLICKS. THIS WAS TAKEN FROM THE MI CAROUSEL. I AM A HUGE FAN OF THIS PICTURE, CREDITS TO THE AMAZING ARTIST AFFILIATED.

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What is my Name?

“What is it, Sagar?”

“I don’t know really know, one of those waves of thoughts that are not meant to be expressed.”

“Confess, in verse or vibrations that shall end up in the space once exhibited from the mouth.”

“Alright, I will speak it out then.”

“One day near the lake,
I thought to myself about my name,
About who am I?
Where I am going?
And where am I from?
It seems as if I am lost.
I looked around and the thoughts would resonate,
Each time, each eye would ask the same,

What is my name?

So are we all lost?
In the space just like this verse,
Enumerating through words,
Vibrating through walls of the heart,
Escaping through the origin of those stars.

In fact, all of them are like these words,
Exhibiting different answers to the questions,
To the same tree, resting over impositions.
What about the people, I have been with?
I have kissed beautiful woman,
Watched them sleep,
Greeted the dawn with my need.
Where are they? Their memories?
With the poems I gave them,
It seems that they too are long gone.

Just like my words,
Huh, traveling into the lost space,
Regardless of time, they stay,
And one fine day,
You will read this form of my claims,
When I rest by the eternal lake,
You will say,
Oh, that’s his name,
And what wonders he says!

Afterall, even if lost,
How senseless will be living alone,
Each word you read transmute my being,
I am a poet driven by insane needs,
To exist in you with your space,
To deceive you with your time,
My immaterial lazy mind,
Repeating the same line,
What is my name?

Un Voyage

From this word, I breathe to lie,

To the world an illusion and to me, myself.

A world that appears to live with your mind,

With each word that you read,

My lie elaborates a reason to live.

Now that we are together,

You and me, lets embrace my visions though your eyes,

I will write about the sunset,

And you cry out for the moon,

I will incarnate a feeling,

And you colour it within.

But, before we leave to this empty page,

You should know that I am here for the play,

I run away from my own desires,

and leave such thoughts to rust in deny,

And do we really need to rhyme our journey ?

And I should warn you again, my friend,

Dante never burned in hell.

It was the man who wanted the travel,

Lost and never to be found again.

If you are willing to come,

Let me tell you, the river often flies with the dead of love.

And now you are my creation, a song,

We can fly like a bird,

Die in another word,

Live like the Bhrama’s call,

Deceive the stars of destiny above.

A poet’s point being a puzzle,

What difference resides between a human and a word,

A word and a belief,

A lie and a truth,

Rather all began and die out lose?

I believe I am a word of my poet,

I will end within the verse of life,

Yes, with a meaning that only he will decide,

A lie, A thought, Just an inspiration to write.

Pandora

Thunder, darkness and cry held the sky,

She had her feet above the night,

Holding on to the darkest colors and rhymes 

But the rain got her in time,

Then came the colors above and the dark over powered the light

Greed, lust and all the filth held on the spill 

The poor girl then held her instincts, 

Cage was empty now, the color black was gone,

The only thing that remained was hope inside the little stone.

Her name was Pandora and she cried out for the sins,

She kept in the most evil shade ,

Yes the hope within.

The Coloured Truth

An expression from this universe,

The rhythm of our hearts,

The assemblance of the stars,

Colours of the hopes far apart,

Are we drunk in illusions and scars ?

For all we see is dark.

The colour unknown,

Filled within our vision for the globe,

We might have ordaned our planet with colours,

But they keep fading in the space of the rooms,

As if they set like the sun into the night,

And never return to embark the truth of life,

Sciences pounder over this painting of illusions,

And someday they will bring out the frame,

Years to years, we will be decieved by shades of immitation.

As if literature held the core of this universe,

And everything meant out meant in,

Do we feel the darknes within us ?

Darkness all around and inside,

But what colour is it, unknown.

The colour we cant fathom to our conscience and lores,

Something as bright as invisible to our light,

Somwehere where the frames dont fit to remind the night,

And the where the sun resides over every ally.

Where dark embraces through light,

And there is no colour undefied.

-Sagar Arora

The Story Of A Human Being

 

“She had blood, but no nation,

She had love, but not a destination,

She had colours in her life,

She was the Nur of Humanity”

 

She was trapped in a cell, grey walls were the only companion to her thoughts; no memory about her past, just the pain trembling through her nerves to the head where no questions could fall apart. A cell was her knowledge of the universe, somehow a woman in her twenties lost all her vision into an abyss made of four walls. She looked at the gate and gazed to the different colour in hopes, till her eyes lost the sense to behold the vision.

She opened her eyes in the hospital, she heard a lady near her calling out, “Nur?” “Open your eyes Nur”. The woman grabs a sense to a world unknown and he could decipher nothing but the colour of her cloths. She was in a hospital bed, with strings digging into her heart, has she lost it all? She thought, remembering herself, finding her consciousness. She asks out to the people around and the lady replied “My dear daughter, Alllha has blessed us! My dear child, you suffered an accident last month and just regained consciousness. I am so happy to see you, Nur.” She knew her name and the fact about how she cannot retain anything because of injury; she could not find herself within the mist of the situation, but she felt a sense of harmony with presence of the people around her.

Nur found a place in the Khan family as the only daughter and build up a new life, after a few years of regaining the senses of the world, she started teaching in a small school in Pakistan. She was able to educate herself with the new generation and her life was progressing with a normal phase of love and affection for her work.

Her injury remained subtle, but she used to have nightmares having no symbolic representation, she could gain her memories but her positive attitude lead her towards success. She fell in love with a man named Umair, they married and had a baby girl. Nur’s life was running through a simple and sweet approach of time and situation.

One day, Nur and Umair had a vigorous fight over an issue of her working for more hours and not looking after her personal health, the night following to the day bought a tormenting dream.

I remember what was told, shoot the prick in the face, that’s what commander general told me. Ahmed Husain, the man who gave coordinates to the secret Intelligence base in India that reckoned its faith to a terrorist attack. I remember what he said to me, “Neha ! Find the man and shoot the prick in the face”.

The target was aimed, I could sense the feel of accomplishment. I waited for Ahmed to be alone in the room, so that a hit can revenge the vice he initiated to my Nation. My aim was fixed on him, his family went out and the last member that went out was a small girl wearing a pink traditional wear, my heart throbbed for a moment, but I knew the mission that I had to accomplish.

I took the shot and that’s all I remember.

It was 3 am, she woke up with her heart running out a similar sense of pain to her nerves. “It was a dream, it is just not possible.”

She picked up her phone and typed the words AHMED HUSAIN. The search results flushed a sequence of visions, she closed her eyes and realised that Neha was never Nur.

The lady stayed there in her bedroom, with her eyes closed, with a heart throbbing out for something that cannot be described. The feeling could not be highlighted.

She opened her eyes and saw her daughter sleeping gently, the baby was dressed in pink and the single colour provoked a cry of her life.

“What’s the matter, Nur?” Umair asked her, as he woke up in fear.

The room with a family amalgamated through faith was reckoned to silence. The lady took her time to answer and after wiping her tears she said, “ I am lucky to have you, Umair. I love you”

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.