Love- A Free Verse

Sugary madness, a lovely
The dawn was beautiful,
You held me all night.
My blank mind races through darkness and glee
But you keep me as the mended promise
I broke on last November night.
Your honest disposition, 
Your soul is entwined with mine.
You left a couple of places 
Before you walked miles.
With me.



P. S. I know, I know.. it ended abruptly and lacks a proper structure. Huh, it was a draft which got published.. umm.. Well because I just wanted to. I have to rework on this. I will present the complete poem before you very soon.

Much love!!



If the time runs on a spiral staircase
It’d feel the blood turning cold.

If it were flowing under the brook’s chest
It’d have –
Embraced the blues
Harnessed its energy
And, learnt the Art.

Sigh! It breathes,
Whispers lullabies in our ears,
Wraps the nostalgia around our fingers
And, beats in our thoughts.

Alas! It never flows,
It never runs.
Time resides in the poet’s dying ink
And, the author’s unwritten tragedies.

°° Aa’eedah

© Cereus Florus. 2019.

O Captain! My Captain! and Ramblings 5

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman –

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


The previous term had already intrigued me to a large extent. All went blank and bright, back and forth. How did I not realize it earlier?

How often do we wonder about ‘definitions’? As of now, they were highly vague and ambiguous affirmations to me.

[ We do get such ‘contemplation pangs’ from time to time. Hypothesis (of our own) is built and demolished, we all do feel like scientists for that glorious period. Ah, contemplation pangs! ]

Well, talking of definitions, how do you define a term as ambiguous as ‘Polity’ or ‘matter’? Oh, well, yes, for many of us, defining matter is just a matter of few words – isn’t Science dearest to our hearts?

Let us frame the important question here : How do you define ‘Science’? Terms like ‘hypothesis’ , ‘experiments’, ‘observations’ , ‘physical world’, etc. are the most exploited ones. And, why they wouldn’t be, they make the utmost sense!

‘Polity’, on the other hand, can be defined as… well, wait! I’d like to share a relevant incident here :

Last June was a life-changing experience for me – from the education POV. My senses (the general ones) were twisted, butchered and moulded back into that of a person who just refuses to accept, well, anything. No, nothing delusional here. The whole complex process made me a interrogative person (add a pinch of introspection).

One of the major events was a ‘Polity’ lecture. The lecturer simply asked the class to define ‘Polity’. And, oh boy, what followed was (almost) a gunfight (of words). Nobody had the accurate definition, as expected by the lecturer but, what he told in the end made a difference :

“Make your own definitions. Observe the phenomena around you and create your own definitions. It should be a simple yet effective one and, even a layman should be able to understand it.”

(These are not his exact words, obviously ; now, my memory hurts!)

Well, it’s been almost a year now. He was right.

This has turned out into a lazy realization post, eventually. Lastly, every word does have a definition. The more number of definitions we fish out, the more clarity we get.

°° Aa’eedah

© Cereus Florus. 2019.


Furiously, blanketed into all the means
Yet disgusted by the surroundings,
Surviving on his own.
Emotions melt and mince,
Not writing a phrase of consolement
Licking through the walls of mind,
Painted in blue and purple, red maple :
Licking through the diagonals –
What he fears is what he wants
What you need is what you hold
What you surrender is your nascent freedom.

All go through the walls of mind,
Through the diagonals.
Voices of your own bite your ears,
Rapid noises sound quacky.
Going through the vision,
Your shackles criss-cross :

The day I wrote this verse, I felt stupid. Now that I have posted it.. well, I still feel stupid for writing this.

°° Aa’eedah

© Cereus Florus. 2019.

Anniversary and Ozymandias

Alright! So, it has been one glorious year of blogging for me! Yay!

*Overdramatic dance*

There goes one of my most favourite poems of all freaking time (major part of the celebration, I tell you) – OZYMANDIAS by Percy Bysshe Shelley –

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Perils of Existence

Mornings begin, blooming into a rosy day
Where we wait patiently to be devoured
By the horizon shift – silver to orange.
Rays hit the pores of our skin,
Craters of dark spots come to light.
Breakfast is an old thing,
We eat our own existence now.
The blood dripping off your mouth
Carries the aroma of mist,
Envelops our existence, blanketed by honey.

I eat the flesh, through mauve nails
Ricocheting between kisses and customs.
As I lay naked on a bloody floor,
Flowing from my veins are remorse-rivers.
You’re one holy dip away from purity.

I write, vomit on ruled sheets
Holding the worst weapon ever created.
The weapon stinks of my existence,
A genocide of its own-
Killing those who read
Living those who write-
A catharsis, unknown.

Mirror barely gets my glimpses,
The alleged beauty, the alleged truth.
Sea of humans suck our golden lymphs
Repeating the age-old truth, truth and beauty.
The outlook of my existence nips
The buds of creativity,
On most of the days, I simply exist.

Apologies sit on my lower lip
Whilst upper lip grows moths.
“Surrendering” is the only ritual poets perform, unconsciously.
On rest of the days, they simply exist.
A molten ball of sickness,
A burning desire put to sleep.

I hide from scavenging eyes
To tie my hair in a messy ponytail.
The question mark on his face
The denial in my existence
Put trembles in the minds.
Strangers stare, upholding their expectations
On the top of it, organs of shame exist.

My head blasts off vague memories
And, my behaviour is erratic.
As swift as my lovers, my mood swings are-
The iron gate shuts off with a thunderbolt,
Fear drips as melting nails from fingers,
As colostrum for an infant,
As kisses of a desperate lover.

Do I even smell of you?
Do my bones lick the touch of my existence?
Do I even exist? Do I?
I appear, I disappear; resurrect from dead.
A reality is denying its reflection.
Or, just another living paradox, driven by madness?
Does that make reality an illusion?

Women are magical
But, shameless women are mystical.
Lashes of introspection sit around oils of retrospection
Flutter around with enormous wings
Woven of sharp blades and,
Stitched on blood-sucked parched skin.
On the night of full moon,
They simply resist.

Finale touches me but ceases to exist
Once it flows along the remorse-rivers.
An emotion presses itself into your chest,
We know it.
We hear it thrashing our left breasts
Whilst the red organ pumps more and more.
On most of the days, we simply resist.

°° Aa’eedah

© Cereus Florus. 2019.


Pleasant evenings taste sour.
Tamarind sky gleams
with the tangerine hue and silver clouds
(with a pinch of rock salt in their linings) –
the process of Disillusionment begins.

The breeze seems soothing
(the first touch remains pious).
The heat gnaws at the droplets –
the first,
the second,
the third –
and, the forehead lines disappear
(a sigh of relief).
With fire in the belly,
the lips pucker
as his brown eyes rest
on the gladiatorial night,
feeding on the irascible twilight.
The two become one –
the process of Disillusionment begins.

Darkness is an emotion
born of dreams and the actuality.
Unpretentious. Transparently sincere.
With a divine celestial at its centre-
the fractured memories merge and disperse
the conflictual realities come together –
the process of Disillusionment begins.

°° Aa’eedah

© Cereus Florus. 2019.