From The Quill

 I am born of fury,  I was born in bloodshed.  In some corner of the world  I reincarnate as Death.  No choosing, no right or wrong  No age or religion, or caste  I seek blood and I draw it  Causes mingled and morality at stake;  Battles won and lost in the struggle for those  Who is up in the high chairs yet  The sufferings are of those stampeded below  The weight of power. I am born from battles,  They created me to balance the good and bad. Yet when wars are fought,  It all becomes just stories. Versions of the truth,  Yours and theirs. False hopes and assurance  That wars are inevitably good  For humankind seeks the blood of its own  Pretending they are different.  You hope history doesn't repeat. You hope battles spare children and women Who becomes pawns in your ego games But nothing changes, does it? Era after era the stories repeat, And you pray harder every day. Irony is, you worship ...

 This is not the first time  We met at the crossroads of life.  I feel it as deeply as you do. I recognised your eyes.  As soon as they met mine,  There was a similar longing in them  To know, to touch, to feel, and hear.  As if we have been doing so for eras now  The familiarity of your scent  Which I otherwise can't recognise  The comfort in your breath  That gives me warmth in the snowy night. And then I watched you extend your hand to me  As if to say, hold on to me now,  I have waited long enough  Travelled through cities and time  To reach out to you. And I do, expecting the touch to be electric.  Instead, there is a sense of mundanity.  My heart skips a beat.  For I have never felt this familiarity in my life Our fingers entwine as we walk.  Silently through the busy street. To most onlookers, we are lovers,  To those who know, strangers,  To us, soulmates tied by an invisible...