“A gypsy searching for a forsaken tribe, a vagabond cursed to wander—this is the cry of everyone who’s ever felt they don’t belong.” A haunting, repetitive verse exploring the deep human need for belonging through the metaphor of homelessness—both physical and spiritual. The poem’s refrain “Where is my home and where I am going to sleep?” echoes through various landscapes—deserts, wastelands, bustling towns, and silent valleys—as the narrator confronts regret, shame, desire, guilt, and lost faith.
A haunting contemplative poem exploring the universal human experience of loss and its profound impact on our existence. Through vivid imagery of a mythical King who rules over all lost things from his frost-crowned throne, this introspective piece examines how loss shapes identity and the hidden wisdom that emerges from pain. The poem delves into existential questions about where lost loves, dreams, and parts of ourselves go, creating a powerful metaphor of an island kingdom built from collective human grief. A thought-provoking exploration of sorrow’s transformative power and the bitter fruit of understanding that grows from life’s inevitable losses.
A haunting narrative poem exploring the eternal struggle between light and darkness within the human soul. This introspective piece delves into themes of moral duality, spiritual conflict, and the coexistence of prophet and devil in one person. Through vivid imagery of pain, redemption, and self-reflection, the poem examines how opposing forces of kindness and temptation shape our existence. Perfect for readers seeking deep philosophical poetry about human nature, internal battles, and the complex relationship between good and evil that defines the human experience.
Constantly walking down a dark alley of pain,
a cold path, leading to no loss and no real gain
He walks alone; he has always been walking alone,
each step is an agony, but he doesn’t groan or moan
He stops for a moment to take a tired breath;
thinking of his sad existence and a pitiful death
He sees a man sitting and leaning forward,
he doesn’t move, his posture so awkward
Brains blown out, there is silence in the hall,
no commotion, just blood splashed on the wall
His dead eyes, motionless, clouded and sallow,
that man is him, a life so deep and a death so shallow
Who were you really? He asks the dead man,
What did you really want? What was your clan?
Pulls onto his own hair matted with blood and brain,
he sees himself smile, though in actual he is slain
I was the product of imagination, the darkest of them all,
pain, sorrow, and suffering, an amalgamation of them all
Slowly cooked and roasted upon the fire of circumstances,
I took every risk and I availed all the chances
I hung myself all through my life, on the cross of desire,
my guilt and my regrets, lighting a damn big fire
My body laughed so hard, while my soul slowly bled,
the nails of remorse drawing blood, dark and red
I wore the crown of pleasure, dancing the dance of senses,
each conquest was glory, no qualms, no mending fences
But it was a crown of thorns, my soul writhed in pain,
and on the cross of desire, my character was finally slain
I was a prophet, I was the devil, the contrast burnt so bright,
the devil on the left always, and the prophet on the right
Kindness was the prophet’s domain; he ruled it so well,
sensuality was the devil’s game; he played it in hell
The prophet held hands and fanned the flames of life,
the devil played his flute and sharpened his sinful knife
The prophet bowed in humility, acknowledging his bounds,
the devil laughed in shadows and made his daily rounds
They were opposite in nature, but they shared a core,
crying over a broken heart, weeping for a whore
But when tired of crying, they both walked the earth,
in search of some joy, in search of some mirth
The devil broke some hearts, the prophet mended souls,
the devil stole some dreams, the prophet filled some holes
The devil caused some chaos, the prophet preached some order,
but the prophet stayed behind, while the devil crossed the border
Then they both sat together and wept and cried some more,
the prophet on his throne and the devil on the floor
The prophet told the devil that they had different fates,
the devil smiled and offered, ‘No, we are soul mates’
The dead fell silent and chose to speak no more,
he only thought in silence, shaken to the core
There was a dichotomy, though he always knew,
that it was no stark, he had no clue
He was two, not one, that was the only fact,
the prophet and the devil, it was a strange pact
He looked ahead and started to walk again,
the prophet and the devil, in the dark alley of pain
Shehryar khawar 