Anatomy of a Self-Indulgent Moongazer


This book will launch on Aug 19, 2020. Currently, only those with the link can see it. 🔒

the thoughts, in paranoia of being caught, chasing no ends, running out of vortices — the tone of a definite crash, but the remnants of ideas coalesce to expel the delinquency — from transient humor to one exhibiting the true resilience, and emanating from it is the liberation of senses.

here is no sentimentality, everything is elemental — an examination of the pursuit of independent spirit — acceptance of the intimate, and losing the burden of existence.

eerie and tenacious, the melody that meets the need of malady strikes dream-like.



The moment cuts through both sides of the story; the memory wants to stay. Sometimes the mirror is a lie one wishes to be fooled by.





To have thought of everything and nothing, I have conceived ghosts that hatch anything.





The unmasking of illusions, then a wakeful nothing — a savage gloom.





Tragedy pursues in the reflection of the mirror, in the eyes of friends and the touch of the lover.





Around two in the night, sleep may break to confide a secret — of the morning that pushes into dreams.



The imagination keeps me sane through the night. In the morning, sleep gives me reasons to dream.





A distant star is as close as my mind leaps. All that is in-between is too polite for me.





Being a poet is losing air and gaining a breath.





Little do the birds know of their destination. But they fly in the silence between the blue sky and the blue sea.



What I see waters my memory. The thought becomes a song I dance to. The passage is a cave, and I become the loitering light. Color is a romance.





The Moon is a terrible chasm to bear. I raise a gaze to appease its blunt rage.





The silence is a cave. The lethargy leads. Quiet is my mind; the tragedy still.





The moment that endeavors for escape is unhinged.





No matter the futility of the soul, my mind continues a wild chatter I cannot help. The choice is too close to derangement, and I cannot make up my mind.



Loud, lethargic, and heavy — the state of my mind is like an iceberg cracking under its weight.





Loneliness feels like being unable to grasp the echo of your own voice.





Memorize the liquid infinity when you decide to seal my mouth with a kiss.





The room left on my own is a collage of poetry and music — a mosaic of words and laughter sprinkled with hints of melancholy.





Weird are the blues. Weird is the sight that means to hang on but remains aloof. The voices which mean to wield you are weird. Weird is what keeps you up in the night without any explanation.





The ford where the words create


•a harmony of senses

•laughter as the antidote to rustic silence

•an ardor to outlast sadness


is where I seek my home.





Rivers are an extravaganza, either indifferent or rabid. The light chooses to glow in the ebb and flow. The ocean believes it is on edge, merely escaping death. How thirsty the clouds might be when in a spur drizzle?!



Why have you escaped the sky and entered through the window? Has the sky denied you too? I hold an empty glass. I pour with my arms shaking. The night is long, and my dreams have become wearisome — too harsh a sight to pursue any longer. I have tried writing on the windowpane. I sensed light in the alcove.


It is close to sunrise, and you still have not left. I wonder if the sky is in delight. Today you may brush the dust off my glass. Tomorrow I might be able to swallow your drops, and the day after, you may engulf me in your waters.





The song of a butterfly

sought musicians

to switch off their instruments,

cut the strings off the words,

and sing in a reverie,

then dance in joy!





In the narrow roads, alight by a fragrance, we crossed each other

Or, I passed you again in my mind

I have memories of laughter but few words for it.

I sought the light of the world; to it, I set the world apart.





Love is quiet between the two. Love is loud in a crowd. Love is bound to announce itself with a bang.





Life repeats, and the cage swallows itself. I find stains sketched on the hollows of the soul.





A shriek in a silent room is difficult to contain. It is a gulf of anguish that can break the soul.





My sight in folly is existence denying its fruitfulness. I, as a meandering song, look into the others for a meaning.



Rage on a tombstone never leaves an epitaph. It raises the cackle of the dead.





A mind left to its vices is fragile and fickle, mingling at the crossroads of chaos and confusion. It reflects the ideation of anarchy but a lack of spirit. The direction is a lost plot; the signs gray — stories of ruin plague such a mind. To find a heart is to sabotage it, and to flare up is to go berserk. High points are numerous, and they are mostly misleading. With beliefs in a conflict, there is a deep-seated fear. In lethargy, one swims. The breath locked in an embrace around the lungs never leaves. The reserved is damned with angst; the social curses his luck. Former perpetually breaks only to rearrange. Latter pitches to be self-destructive.





The loud leaves me stunned. I cave. The blitz is in arrival — whatever you may say.





The reverse of ageing is raging — a rage against decay, a rage against ruin, a rage against time.





The ones alive carry their breath to the song, and so does the Death sway to the joys of life.





Rhythm flows. The floor has a soul. The vagrant vibes into the ambience. Eyes break into a dance. Apologies disappear. The ritual begins.

About the author

Prateek Joshi is a medical graduate from New Delhi, India. A voracious reader, poetry for him is a means of release from the everyday jargon. His style of writing remarks upon self-examination — an objective assay of experiences. view profile

Published on May 15, 2020

Published by

3000 words

Genre: Poetry

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