GRISLY GAME OF LOVE

(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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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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In conversation with Tagore

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet & Author. (Where the mind is without fear A nd the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;) ~ Rabindranath Tagore O h dear Tagore! the lament of the written words—this sacred art, Once a medium for profound contemplation, it has now been diminished to the triviality of emails and text messages. I can’t help, but imagine how you might have navigated this digital chaos.Perhaps you would have found yourself calling as an Instagram poet, crafting pithy 280-character gems of wisdom into condensed, bite-sized pieces perfectly suited for the fleeting attention spans of scrolling fingers. Your insightful reflections on the human condition would likely be drowned in a sea of hashtags like #LiteraryNoble and #nobleforlikes, lost amid an endless parade of selfies a...

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat

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