I should be like an Owl

Using nightfall appropriately

Should be scribbling

Painting my words

My fingers should be in a hustle to finish a page

And page after page

The walls if it runs out

Further the air around, as a medium to write and to share

Discovering myself

Finding myself amidst words

Taming myself the way I want

Grammars are paid less heed

Expressing myself  in a free verse

Leaving my traces

Leaving a legacy

Leaving a part of me

Through what I scribble

Beware!

I am losing myself to art

Spilling the chaos on the canvas

I may not remain a whole

For I maybe draped in a hand skill

Stroked with animal hair

Lost in the heat of colors

Seized in an imaginative capture

Transfixed in time

The remnants hard to characterize

Mutilated for an inventive victory

Woven in a verse of triumph

Sometimes discreet in absurdity

Sometimes molested in modernity

I may not remain a whole

Dashes may surface

In exhibits,

It may surround your gaze

Exist as a description

Limited just as a name.

Lover's Hymn:

Notes of music,
Written on a scarlet parchment,
Left unsigned, sound like her;
The sweetest of God's tunes.
Alas, of such a token, vanity be the consummation?

Oh, but then how the Summer Sun,
That the Bard measured his beloved against,
Dissolves into the heavenly ether;
And how the Moon, looks but so marred!
Fie, Mortals, who be no kin to her, whose unwithering grace evades all reason.

By poor sonnets, and by humble songs,
Love's pursuit, that one might consider vain,
Gives eternal joy, for a moment's pain,

Sage's Sermon:

Never, never a lover's discretion believe,
For never a lover's eye does poise fair,
And never does his ear justly measure.
For so is the grasp of unhinged affection;
That a moment's joy seems to last forever,
And a lifetime's misery seems meaningless.

Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything-
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?

So, girl I want you to know,
Maybe this year is the last chance for us,
Maybe yesterday was the last conversation, we ever had,
Maybe those were the last words between us.
There are a lot of things I never said,
As I never had the courage to,
Maybe be I never will,
But I want you to understand,
I love you more than You think I do,
Maybe I was never that crazy,
Probably I was just crazy for you.
I know this is not the perfect time,
Maybe it never is,
Maybe it never will be,
But I just want you to know,
I will always be there for you,
No matter how many years pass by.
I will always love you, just for the sake of love.

What if all those insane people are the normals
and we are the crazy ones.

He was going round and round
walking in circles throughout the haunted hall
with millions of thoughts roaming his mind
He was stuttering and screaming
with dull, fading paint coloring whites and blacks
He was going crazy right in front of my eyes
and I was struggling trying to stop my tears
I hugged him with all my might and begged him to stop
I watched my brother becoming cracked and losing his mind
...watching in silence with painful cries...
I helplessly lost him in a super-massive black hole with no return
it was the insanity of a never-ending celestial dance
and I am sure my turn is coming soon.

We are the Eccentrics existing in a world of borders.
We are walking on margins; fighting our masked shadows.

A Paris night, with all it's sweet endeavours,
Blurred by a face with emerald eyes,
Out shadowed by the shades of her hair,
She must be the truth of beautiful lies.

With a cup of warm coffee in her hands,
With the gentle wind unfolding her hair tress,
The waiter with bewildered bones,
Greeted her 'Buenas Noches'

She grinned and with tender steps lead her way,
While a pair of eyes was at sea.
In the wild calm of her imperfect picturesque,
The shackles of his heart were set free.

Behind the looking glass, the boy stood subdued,
In the utter waves of her essence,
The euphonious ripples of the angel's visit,
The graceful gift of her presence.

The night turned into a hopeful day,
With the pair of eyes still seeking in the streets,
Searching for the beat of his heart,
The earth to his feets.

With desire clocking to despair,
Those eyes grew wet,
With the clock beating seconds,
He had a journey to get back.

The bags laid still on the room,
The food untouched at the bed,
With eyes lost in that night,
He raved the streets of Paris till a miracle shed.

And his eyes met that lovely face,
The girl you can't stop from falling in.
The blood rushed once again through the veins,
Working the muscles to bring a smile,
The smile of an answered heart,
The smile that explains the mystery we call Love.

But the face was lost again,
In the same old Paris streets.
With a hidden smile, he turned back,
Hoping their small worlds would meet again,
In a place where hearts reigned.