There is a poem
that I mean to write.
Not today -
maybe on a rainy Saturday in
late November.
When i will wake up early
just to watch you sleep.
When you will almost be there
- chasing through the maze of your dreams -
but not quite there.
Even now - When you aren't here
- a trace of you reaches out to me.
Across the chasm that separates us.
Your sillage
will linger around me.
A scent that I will have set to heart.
Preserved in the vacant spot
That eagerly waits to receive it.
I will pick my moleskin,
that lies at my bed side.
And maybe then,
I'll write a poem that I mean to write.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
Dispersed
between
sounds of teeth
grating against nails
is every word
I will ever say
drowned in
every word
I never will.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
All year long
I procrastinate
until the cold
December air
is dense with the cries
of these neglected tasks
But the beginning
of a new year is light.
So much room
to push stuff back
to a later date.
A perfect time to write.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
Religion comes first
Then science.
But both die together
at the end of mysteries.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
Intellectual over consumption under expression
A constipated mind needs cognitive laxatives
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
Neither freshly downloaded
Nor recently bought.
Old music wafts
Out of the digital sarcophagus
And gently floods
The familiar channels
Of my auditory cortex.
It neither flows on
The unyielding slopes of time
Nor from past to the future.
But on the plains of untime.
Washing against the shores
From myriad mouths
Long after the flood seizes.
A little shriller on the ears
A little baser on the heart
Of old blazers and mothballs
Grainy and sepia
A chunk of frozen time.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
Like all other cities in the clouds
this one is often wet and always loud.
Its air heavy with the sweat of labour
and light with the soothing lunar caress.
Its bricks, the stuff of dreams,
raised by giants, manifested in concrete.
Its people the dreamers.
There shoulders drenched in hope
Walk with weeping umbrellas to the sky
in painful black soles...
...Past snow globe dreamlands
of nebular realms and rainbow twilights
Shielded in walls of nothingness thick
to keep the fantasies in and the phantoms out.
And she prances on the grey greasy pavement
blowing bubbles of soap that brave the rain.
Her chin - the sun.
Her breath - the monsoon winds.
Her curls - the streams in the woods.
Her forehead - the promised land to each raindrop.
And her soul - the bliss that lies in the space between worlds.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
Reluctant to be
What's most innate.
Like a dandelion afraid
To be swept away.
An advocate of
The probabilistic
Indulging in
Pre-determinism.
Split...
Going nowhere.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC