Amore La Words

  The mornings these days are a little too calescent The Asters are a little too zestful, chorusing  their songs in muffled voices.  The dusks these days are a little too Solicitous  the auburn petals orchestrating along with the crimson sky in  a little more ecstacy.  The dawns these days are a  little too balmy  the fragile air unfurling it's cinnamon, cider, sandalwood scents driving the deliriousness a little too much.  The little too much raphsody of Feuille Morte leaves is gamboling in the golden laced roads,  the tantalizing sea yawning  with every  brisk breath of nature.  The maples, these days are a little too euphoric,  the tranquilized  mustard,  a little too inpatient to  lunge for the blue,  Kans inviting the divinities all the way through the paths of heaven auspicating the awaited prayers.  The glee of heart and the smiles on pastel lives are a little too prosaic these days The...

 Amidst the turmoil of emotions, the one which squelches is the fear- crippling the bones into frozen blanched ruptures. And yet the unruly convoluted heart becomes meek and jejune as the fear behests it to be, reigning the riots all the way through the blood and burning the flames of agony into the heart, savouring the relics of this desipience. And while we travail to cope with this , this very fear of ours sadistically enjoys the little fiesta of our maiming soul. Deliberately the fear enthralls us and dazzled by it's voodoos ,we dance on it's whims and dog about with desperation to stifle it, instead of confronting these ghoulish awes. The more we conceal and feint this, the more we play 'dumb-charades' with ourselves, pretending to use the,' I AM FINE' mask as our shields , dodging the anxieties to some far off dampened corner of our heart only dilate the fear to the acme. With the last fall, as the last leaf of autumn withers away ,that mask gets busted. A...

~ AMBER BLUE Better said Jughead Jones,” life is not an Agatha Christie novel, it’s a lot messier.” In the labyrinth of lies and among the chaos of sins ,happens the plethora of crimes when blood is no longer an excuse of bond, rather a mere lust, when greed becomes cynical and the hatred is ever more enthralling, when revenge haunts the nights- the darker part of us , that we are not so well acquainted with somehow escort us to the void of darkness. My lust for mysteries started with Agatha Christie’s ‘ MURDER OF RODGER ACKROYD’, then followed ‘ABC MURDERS’ , ‘MURDER IN THE ORIENT EXPRESS’ ,’THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY’ until when I realized I am succumbing to Poirot and Christie for an escape out of this lunatic world which reeks of blood every other day, and this obsession with Poirot and Christie, Marple added, was and even today bring me to the edges and spur up thrill in every inch of my body . Then came the day when I stumbled upon ‘THE SHERLOCK HOMES COMPLIATION OF MYSTRIES’ (...