Down and down in the deep dark void,
down and down we go
Helpless puppets on unseen strings,
dancing to and fro
Down and down in the deep dark void,
where all is dark and low
Rivers of sorrow and the vales of loss,
all misery and woe
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What if longing wasn’t a feeling—but a creature, a curse, and a companion?
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Longing is an ache - a deep pulsating ache,
relief is an effort, which the ache cruelly cripples
Throwing a single stone and troubling a silent lake,
creating countless circles - outspreading ripples
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Longing walks a road - a long and lonely road,
sighing with each indulgence, so delicious is the sin
Tired and exhausted, longing bears its heavy load,
pleasure is the gain, a new loss with every new win
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Longing is the steel - the cold and heavy steel,
it is shackled to my feet, my bloody, blistered feet
Birthing countless agonies, the wounds that never heal,
I am addicted to its taste; the poison is so sweet
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Longing is a fragrance - an old, faded fragrance,
it’s embedded in my soul, my oh so tired soul
It rides the autumn wind, a bold and cruel flagrance,
engraved are the words, regrets on a scroll
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Longing is a swan - a floating black swan,
it sings a lullaby, a soft and sad lullaby
It is here for a minute, and then it is gone,
haunted is the tone, its verses all wry
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Longing is the darkness - a fearsome looming darkness,
it heralds the final doom, the black and grey doom
It really is a curse, so vivid in its starkness,
fear fills the sky, and hope cannot bloom
Who am I? What am I? What is my existence? Where am I heading? What will become of me?—Five questions, no answers, only increasingly dark possibilities.
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Who am I,
when I laugh so loud, and also when I cry?
Am I a terrible figment of God’s imagination,
or perhaps, as I often tell myself, a mirthful lie?
Perhaps, I am what was meant to be discarded,
or maybe, to be ignored carelessly, or meant to die
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What am I,
when I beg and beseech, looking up to the sky?
Am I a chaotic and messy pile of junk and trash,
or perhaps a weird collection of impossible thoughts?
Perhaps, I am a useless and wasteful hand of tarot,
a card with no picture or symbol, only stains and dots
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What is my existence,
when I examine my state from some distance?
Is this just a never-ending nightmare,
or perhaps just sand slipping through my grasp?
Perhaps, there is really nothing that I truly have,
and maybe the rope of hope is just a venomous asp
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Where am I heading,
with a resolve all strong, and my wings all spreading?
Am I diving headfirst into an unfathomable abyss,
or perhaps heading towards doom, with a loud roar?
Perhaps, I am driving down the road to hell,
while the shadow of doubt grows even more
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What will become of me,
will I ever know for sure, and will I ever see?
Will I always be searching for what I dream of,
or is the door just locked forever, and there is no key?
Perhaps, what I touch, will one day become gold,
but by then, all the light will be lost to the dark sea
A journey through dreams where prophets whisper, and sirens lie, and where imagination walks among shamans, sinners, and dying fires.
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Sometimes, I imagine the most unimaginable,
playing with lightning within the clouds of doom
At other times, I dream the most indescribable,
part of another time, walking the hallways of gloom
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Sometimes, I visit the land of the sad throat singers,
their chords singing the melody - foretelling the end
Then there are men from the West - the tired gunslingers,
flames are dying slowly - the fires that they tend
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There are shamans from Tibet - humming ancient words,
and flutes playing softly, the lament of the damned
Lonely prophets in the streets - the ever-preying birds,
warning of the apocalypse, their words all crammed
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There are lonely gypsy women, with wings under their feet,
their crystal balls telling fabulous lies, all without shame
Sirens hungry for young blood with their smiles so sweet,
their seduction dancing the tango - a never-ending game
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I see the silent eyes of the mindless throng - ruled by sin,
smiles masking a thousand fetishes, all pleasure and lust
Tears of the guilty Midas, hiding the insatiable grin,
desires swirling in frenzy, their feet covered in rust
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I dream of the strange mer-people under the stormy seas,
the weight of the dark waters burdening their heart
Pale mermaids and their sad laments, begging on their knees,
weaving a million enticements, perfecting their art
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I dream of dense forests, under the humid skies,
the old, gnarled trees, standing a solemn guard
Roots gripping the black soil, upwards they rise,
the old gods sleep, their memories all marred
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Sometimes I imagine, and sometimes I only dream,
pastimes of a failed saviour and delusions of grandeur
Life is the darkest of all curses, and so it may seem,
users have failed the system, and He is only a voyeur
Shehryar khawar 