Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow




“Patrice, are you alright?”
Ambre, je suis bien!

“But, but you’re bleeding”
Mon cœur prend une fuite, libérant l’excès

“And your eyes, so pale!”
Ambre, juste une phase. ils sont en déclin comme la lune d’hiver

“Patrice, did something happen?”
Pas vraiment, Evey gauche. me sous-évaluées pour la douche caviar potable

“Oh my! Are you serious? Evey left YOU!”
Ambre, oui, et ce coeur de la mine est de décharger les bagages et les souvenirs de son

“Patrice, everything will work out”
Il sera, il le fera. dès que je me perds dans la rose parsemée lit de mort

“Goodbye, Amber”
Patrice, non.



{Not Applicable}

She had friends –
(A few – close,
Much like family)
Ironic perhaps,
More than half of a sex
Not hers –
In generic terms of the opposite

 Of them also –
The one with tails,
She had one as a lover
And one who was her muse;
In her words –
“He was a beautiful muse”

Of those who’d become family,
A select few –
Could only make her happy (truly)
Other shared laughs and smile –
Not genuinely

Now that she’d been away –
A bunch of hours, really
Wondered –
If anyone missed a broken person
(A few did – she knew
But, mental illnesses were at work)

To her muse, love and all those in between,
Someone’s back on the front

To quote this person –
“Midnight is clichéd”

Off Grid

He’d realized –
He was broken,
From inside

Not the suicidal –
“I want to die”


Dang it!
“I am not worth it”

It felt liberating –
He knew it was sad

Feeling lost
Didn’t know what to do

Not just that

Wasted days, after days

Helpful (?), not –
Like, if he was to be true to himself
It was all, but a blur!

He felt like doing nothing
Not even – write, eat or anything else


Even though he shouldn’t feel this way –
It felt like no one cared

Much like a lonesome defeat
It stayed – meddling
Mood swings and constant mental breakdowns

The pillow had defined salt trails
Mentally mushed


To the world – he’d smile and say,
“Alive and kicking”

Not all that glitters is gold –
His life was glittery
Not gold


Left hanging –
In a pool of blood, a string attached
A few screams
Some sobs

That was how he ceased
In a jute garland
With slashes to complete the look

A half burnt cigarette,
Note in a tissue with snot
A wilted rose on the study
With a smile on the face

He had come to be –
With a smile
A journal left incomplete
With lost thoughts and tear stains

“Sadness reeks creativity”,
He’d say – with a smile
And the nonchalant dull eyes
No one seemed to notice

That was how he ceased –
With a jute garland and crimson wrist


Under the usual banter –
On one seemed to notice,
The swollen eyes and the smeared mascara
Smudge marks on the screen

The cheerful girl next door,
One with the hoodies and the cute shirts
Had a battlefield on her arms
Slashes and injection pores

All this was left unsaid
With no notices or appeals
Smirks and drooping grins
Way was weaved

(I was just under,
Pills and overdosed)

Lusted quiver

It had been many nights hence,
I’d been living –
Under the dim lit street lamps
Sleeping in a cardboard box
Sniffing – smell is as good as meal (?)
Being lost and now homeless
Running away –
It now seemed away not worth this
(Was it though?)

It’s been after years,
Years, and years of abuse
Of sexual profanity
By this person;
Apparently, supposed to shelter me –
Help me out – yet I ran
Was I right?
(It’s normal, I suppose – not)

Without anyone looking out anymore –
For lust or worse
This concrete my grave –
A box my coffin
(Dead drama?)
That’s at least better than being covered – white
Liquid not cloth
In frost not fingered touch

Die in hope – not a lusted quiver



It’d been some time;
Since – it has been the end of me

They lay in the back of my dresser drawer –

Pills in the box of mint
Covered in sweat and blood with specks of coke

But – old habits die
Even if the hurt we see is not ours,
It’s an enslavement of sorts


With a moon-bow on the backdrop
Under the star lit sky
Beneath the Acklemore tree,
Waiting for my beloved

As the dawn approaches,
Took my leave,
Trotted down the hill,

Far, far away.

As I walk this path;
In the shadows of tomorrow.

Reached a set of crossroads,

I stand – stare

Filling my wanderlust,
Or going home (?)

Run of conclusions,
Conclusively –
Filled my wanderlust


In a world where there’s much happening
I got him tulips
Freshly plucked from his yard
Tied with a pretty string
Kept it on his grave

Since he’s gone
There’s not much that’s happening
Me, an old armchair and my brood
With wilted cigarettes and –
Under consumed but over needed pills

Here I sit
And brood my remaining days – aloof
And bitter.

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