In the cage of my body, a prisoner is my soul...
Wants everyone happy, that's the life's goal..

Her husband is the one who she is searching for,
Dressed in the garment of simplicity, him she adore

Sits with plans to write, to write about him,
Lost in memories, concentration consumed by eyes filled to brim.

Despite the pain of separation, She wears her smile, for people to laugh..
Mocking continuously, yet she keeps her head high as a giraffe..

An animal, she is.. epitome of uselessness...
She is perfect example of self carelessness..

You had a news to declare,
She had the same news,
Just with a different tone,
You had excitement, she had anger...

But she doesn't know,
Although, you know...

Forget about it
for some time,
You'll forget ...

She's your best friend,
She deserves,
She really deserves ....

The Probability tells me, it stands a chance,
but the statistics of the thing, keep me down..

I'm reading poetry at the cremation ghat
amid chanting of God's name
while ferrying and burning the dead.

The noise unsettles me a bit
as sets me thinking of my own death
that by all means seems closer than farther.

Yet I get the relieving feel
reading poems would heal
all the agonies of my flesh
and take me to that spiritual level
where I would take death as
passing into another dimension.

I'm not much of a religious person
but have always felt devoted to my kindred
seeking transcendence through them.

The best thing I'm hoping right now
is when I burn
someone would amid chanting of God's name
read poetry at the burning ghat.

Does it even make a difference, if none wishes you?

From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

She sits from where
the rainbow arches into the river.

As I eye her fishing net
she reads the question in my mind.

I'm waiting for three thirty
when tides begin to fall
but the shrimps can't go back.

When the bank begins to bare
she glides into the waves
till the water cools her *******.

I walk away knowing
she would bob up to the hour
the moon is upon her face
and she has made another morrow
from the river.