Vigneshwar Shankarabout @vgnshwr archive poetry design


A man is as heavy as are his thoughts in the day
Be light as a feather or heavier than yachts in the bay.
How fast he does move
that depends on his
nature of play.

The one who is lighter just tends to be on his way
But where will he be now oh that he just can’t say.
The direction of his flow
only the winds know

The other with the load of his mind on his shoulder
Follows a trail that simply grows colder.
As far as he knows
he can only stay put
and pray.


Comprehension is a facade, not meant to be.
even retention is a hazard, please be free.

Wandered Away

I let my mind wander
it didn’t come back,
So far away in fact
that I lost track.

Perhaps a with a purpose
of its own it just left,
Now that was something
certainly much too deft.

But did I will it far away
as it troubled me per se?
Or was it never here
this remains still unclear.

And then they ask where
he came from,
absurd as it is ad certum.
At this time when it’s away,
his mental being is quite today.


Smitten to the very core
why have I been?
Do once again I adore,
for I have seen?

Is there reason anymore
to be unkeen?
perhaps a wait some more
to be sanguine.

Oh an intrepid furore
I conceal within,
but don’t know how I win.

On The Day That Logic Died

How else could I describe it as,
but as the day that logic died?

Wits and wisdoms of this burg
with the blasted nonsense collide
on the day that logic died.

He or she bespoke this plight
and flung it far with every might
on the day that logic died.

And told the people that were shattered
but some jabber that not mattered
on the day that logic died.

And ruled the folk of the narrow
with no burden of the morrow
on the day that logic died.

Version 2.0

Version 2.0


Weekends, they are islands of peace and serenity lying scattered upon the ocean of everyday turmoil. They are spaces of temporary respite and rest for the poor beings otherwise tightly wound up by the order of chaos.

Yet, weekends too are often battered by unrelenting waves of drudgery and lie submerged in the translucency of the moment.

Weekends bring a sense of living in the eye of a storm, experiencing an uneasy calm comprising in equal parts of anxiety and exhaustion.

Don’t Stand Still

With a slash of its blade
across the skies it
unleashed a torrent to kill.

So evil the shade
of its coloured eyes it
craved to gather some thrill.

Its presence will fade
but folding some lives
so don’t you dare stand still.

Ekla Chalo Re


Oh hold this measure
of breath in your palms
while I take a moment of still.

As I’m just drenched
in the daily charms
of life and its vain old drill.

Hold these thoughts
of this continuous rift
between your duty and will.

Dwell in the mood of
nonchalant bliss
even if for just the thrill.

Oh hold this moment of
simplistic fun
and dreams that it will fulfill.


What can augur well with a mind unfound by its own light?
Whose cause be the impoverished  state of its vessel, this plight.

Images many spawn by the bounces of rays cast at way.
To no avail for there isn’t focus this day.

A weary gaze into the abyss tells not that much.
But sought it nothing indeed, as such.

For the senses they are live but unwell,
disable them momentarily, one can’t tell.

How long until there’s restored a balance?
Soon we shall see, until then patience.


There is a void,
a lifeless expanse of nothing whence upon
you will hear not even your own voice.

It is a realm,
that which belongs not to anyone,
for to belong is a mere illusion of choice.

And this realm if become you
unlucky enough to find yourself in,
then oh please do rejoice.

for it is the glory of silence,
of solitude and a calm sense of poise.

A poise which exudes that wisdom
of a true self experience.


Our bands disbanded and scattered,
every one of the fellows that mattered.
With these folk the world be spangled,
as they chose not paths entangled.

Our kin they’re pledged to glory,
every scriptor to his story.
With this enterprise they wallow,
as they don’t know what will follow.

Today is for this disunion,
and the sense of disenchanter,
Just wait for the next encounter.

Chasing Wildfires

My friend, he’s a stupid genius,
for he chases these wildfires.

Oh god knows what drives this fellow,
he simply never tires.

Conversation to, he does not,
pay any heed which it requires.

When winter comes upon this lad,
there’s no wonder he thus aspires.

But stop he must, at once he should,
before this plot misfires.

Everything is Contingency

Tearfully, I bid goodbye,
to my friends, they’re family.
And far away to I then fly,
But this is so, unwillingly.

The days to come they take you there,
where you never previse to be.
But neither unjust nor unfair,
it is just the new contingency.

Another day will mark your way,
where everything appears to be,
back to its precursory.