MORNING WITH MOURNFUL CRY

(Aadil Ghulam Bhat) (A Dramatic Monologue) I stand alone, a monument of flesh, Chiseled by greed, by power's coarse command, My hands, once pure, now bathed in scarlet hue, The blood of men who wore the same soft skin. Do you see me now, within this mirrored gaze? A tyrant crowned by sorrow's hollow wreath, A king of dust, with shadows for my throne, My breath a gale that snuffs the weaker flame. Where once was light, I cast an endless night, And in my eyes, the stars themselves grow dim. I break the bonds that held us close as kin, And forge new chains of iron, cold and sharp. I hear their cries, yet turn a deafened ear, For in their pain, I find my twisted peace. I trample love beneath my heavy heel, And let it bleed into the barren earth. I walk this path, alone yet not alone, ...

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CRY ON MY SHOULDER

I'm of two minds, how to get off odds and ends. My faith is no longer changed, limits were exceed. O, my sweet hopes, thou are sugar in mouth, All hopes will fail, all shadows will fade. Not taken and loved to beauty of filthy face, Thy dear steps i used to kiss, in gloomy phase I may be out of your sight, never out of mind, And you will find greatest escape, with cry everytime Every second you would be saudade and remorse, On this cold, dark and sad night, listening the beat of my heart, Gosh, "I am missing these days", with painful screams. You won't cease bawling, will not know what to do.

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When I was but a shadow

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet and Author A dramatic monologue Ah! those days, those cursed days—when I was but a shadow, Dancing in her light—was it light or was it darkness? I cannot tell. She called herself the sun, the center of it all, And I, the orbiting moon, content to bask in her glow. How foolish was I to believe such illusions, To think that warmth was love, and light was life. She spoke of love, yes—often, with fervor— Yet her words were hollow, echoing through the empty chambers of my heart. For what is love to one who sees only herself? What is devotion but a tool, a means to an end, To chisel away at my being until nothing remained? I was clay in her hands, molded to fit her desire, Yet never enough, never whole, always lacking. Do you see how she looked at me? Or through me, perhaps? Her eyes—cold mirrors,...

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat

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