Softly,
Dusk pulls its cloak
Reality bends to twilight
A silver door opens,
And there I see -
She is as snow by its light;

A gentle ice breeze
Blows stardust upon fireflies
This sorcery of sparks and spaces
I see unravel in her eyes;

But then,
My curse is a prison
The winter will pass
Fireflies will fall upon the grass
And yesterday, with bleeding footsteps
Will come for me again.

For a while she'd had her eyes on you;
Behind the shadow of her dark cloak,
In a corner she waited unobtrusively;
She'd followed the signs,
And the pieces were all coming together,
As if inevitably.

Your guardians were now deserters;
Mighty, the circle of exchanged promises that had once stood,
Bold and fearless, impenetrable as a fortress,
Now lay crumbled, rubble beyond ruin,
Leaving that path a ghost of the past,
Arches without doors,
Cold paved verandahs overrun by mist and piles of stone,
Where there'd been bright lit walls that resonated voices and held in warmth;
There, amidst the thick white wisps, the cloaked lady lurked,
Watching your empty footsteps walk.

Where went the angel who smiled upon you in the heart of a storm?
Who spoke a promise into your eyes,
And put her arm around your hurting soul?
If I trip in the treacherous night, you asked,
And as before, deep in a gorge I find myself fall,
Listen for my song, and trust, said she,
Reach, and my hand will be there, locked upon yours.

So arrived a night, darker than any before,
A narrow tunnel sprung up around you and the floor gave way;
Deep into this shaft as you fell,
There was no song, and no one came,
And you did not see,
Way above by the corner of the well,
Behind her dark cloak's hood,
The shadow lady watched in silence,
As you buckled alone under the black night's spell.

Silent tears seep into your palms,
You subdue the sniffles, lest a neighbor heard;
Defeated, then, you lie huddled on your bed,
Quietly you withered like a winter plant;
Somewhere, once, there was a voice from within -
"There are those who care, there are those who love!"
You muster a little smile,
There are those you let down,
To them you pray sorry,
There are children who expect you to be strong,
You wish them strength,
And then everyone else - who would not understand,
Where you lie is an island,
You wish it were different,
It might have been;
The promise of what could be,
Like a treasure you carry.

She looks upon you, by the side of your bed,
And you look back,
She leans over and wraps you in her cloak,
No wait!
Your eyes dart behind - empty, weary room,
And your phone as still as if it were dead;
You lay in the dark,
And she carries you away.

I walked into a cafe on a sunny afternoon,
I had a white pen in my pocket, and on the gift counter I found,
A red sheet of paper, yellow hearts painted on the corners,
I decided I'd write a poem, and I sat there two hours;
I had a secret the color of midnight dark,
I spilled it in white ink and the words turned gray;
Then I stretched and I smiled,
And looked at my mischief glow in the evening light;
The red and yellow beamed, and between them,
My poem, now free, danced in delight.

When I got home that night, once again I pulled out the sheet,
The glare of my room was bright,
And here it dawned that this was a scandal in white!
The words stood tall, bold and proud, hoisting my secret to everyone's sight;
Even the yellow hearts felt shy, and they melted into the red,
Now it was a paper of new color with words that should not have been said;
But then, I was distracted by the night breeze that crept in,
It tickled a wicked smile from somewhere within,
Upon my poem, I gazed sideways,
Truth be told, it never looked better,
So be it - if this was a sin.

I shut the window against the breeze,
And then I allowed good sense to prevail;
I lit a candle on my table, and held the poem in a roll,
The flame spilled into it and my secret waltzed bright orange;
I nodded in silence, for truth be told,
The poem never looked better than this flaming, liquid gold.

I dusted the char, before I shut the lights;
As I fell behind sleep's heavy curtain that night,
I dreamt my own room and opened the wooden closet,
And there it was - as if it always belonged,
Red paper, yellow hearts, and the gray words of that poem I wrote;
A thrill rose in my eyes and crashed back in little needles;
I didn't quite remember, when I woke up next morning,
If I picked up that burning candle and set fire in my dream.

Imagine,
You stand by the ocean,
Boulders spread, rollercoaster waves roll in,
Leaping flight, reckless, hurls itself upon stone;
You hear all sound -
The breeze, the gulls, the people,
But the loudest of all,
The crash of the mighty sea,
Is silent.
Can you project the landscape, and mute its heart?
Or is that strange act a demand too violent?

You plunge deep into tropical wilderness,
Lost like an ant in a green blanket;
A leafy breeze streams in through the bark of lofty guardians,
And the pure forest air - has no fragrance.
Can you imagine nature's heart, and steal its breath?

That time you trekked the stairway to heaven on a clear night,
And you look up for god's firecracker split into a million droplets of light,
Only to find a starless empty black.

There are limits to the senseless,
Why then do I know the feeling of building conversation,
With words we both picked from secret corners,
Feelings shared in measure to each other's freedom,
And then one day your voice falls dead.
No reasons given - not even for empathy's sake,
Just a photo frame's silence to a double blue tick.

You mock formidable locks,
Then throw heavy doors open;
Sunbeams wash in where dark spells swayed,
And somewhere a bird sings,
Were they even real - those tricks wicked whispers played?

You are the soul of endless songs,
You lay traps where clever artists fall;
Dare a third person declare you devious,
You are the very meaning of a good fairy's wand.

You hide from the crowd in plain sight,
While I unravel every little flash and inflection;
I immerse in your language,
And we exchange playground secrets in childly delight;
Yes, I become a child - it's a choice and I trade,
To enter your mystery world with light steps,
The baggage of gathered wisdom I leave behind.

And there, somewhere, while the act plays,
A wise man smiles and he says,
'Such it has always been -
To give yourself to new eyes, you must first turn blind.'

Finally I dusted that lazy pile of too many yesterdays,
Somewhere between forgotten birthday cards, lists, and old bills,
I found the treasure of a tan brown memory, lost to decay;
It was a gift many winters ago,
Meant to begin an adventure,
Those were the days of metamorphosis - feelings became stories,
And they dripped from the tip of my pen;
I flipped the pages -
The diary was empty.

The corner of my eye fell upon my weapon,
My hand shook a bit - there was something a little different about today;
I held its edge upon the first page,
Somewhere inside, rusted corners groaned;
And then the silence burst,
Attempted ******, imploring, the ring of my phone,
Not this time - defeated, it faded,
Till it grew tired and shut up;
I felt my cheeks stretch into the greedy smile of those days,
When routine was a slave,
And unchained, my imagination reigned.

Much had passed - the equation had reversed,
And I had died a little, every flip of gone calendars,
But today, again I was alive,
And for metamorphosis, I held someone inside;
Her brown eyes eluded playfully,
Behind the child was a deep soul's abode,
The poise of royalty, in voice the simple girl she was;
I lifted my nib from the page,
And in that timeless stillness, something formed.

Till the doorbell rang;
Startled, I realized it was the middle of the week,
But the chains had fallen;
How far I had traveled in a morning,
The world of rude reminders was no longer mine,
Nor the world of cliches, overstated phrases, and bad poetry;
I had a fine needle in my hand, and I wove upon the sheet,
This was not a romance, or dark or sad,
It shied from big statements - it was delicate embroidery.

The phone rang, and the doorbell rang - distant noise,
And in the empty spaces between phrases,
My mind wandered back to her eyes;
There was a wall,
And much as I had tried,
I had never found a door to the other side;
I wondered what she would make of scribbled pages,
Would she unravel riddles, and strip my soul naked?
Of course I wouldn't know -
I am alone in this room and walls don't speak.

Incessant, impotent ringing - the dull day is now left behind.

--

'Suicide', the man in the uniform reported,
'Any note?'
'No inspector, on the table I found an old brown diary,
The first page just says -
"I hope you fill this with adventure :-)" '
'And the rest?'
'The rest is empty - looks like an old gift';
'A woman's handwriting, I see',
'Yes sir',
'Okay then,' barked the inspector,
'Case closed.'

The setting light splits into pieces,
Between slanting silhouettes, caught upon a little pool of sky;
You absorb in silence, aware,
This margin of worlds is a fleeting fantasy,
Like those ten minutes between windscreens,
When moving streetlights fall upon her in streaks.

Walking with her, alone, an hour of the night,
Into deep corners of thoughts,
Time is not a dipping sunset, and yet it won't bend,
To this desire of holding it in a straight line,
And walking with her, alone, till the break of morning;
The hour passes, and that is all,
You are blessed, you know,
Even if this was the end;
You smile, and you walk on.

The day turns, a little distance has a way,
Tonight holds in its palms as a fragrance, yesterday;
Her touch breaks upon your body in the ocean breeze,
And her voice, locked in moonlit waves, pours into intimate spaces;
You lay down against the night and silent laugh,
Filling hope into the sea;
This is where you would stop, if you could,
The passing train that carries everything away.

Had it, then, really come to be,
You would remember the secret,
That something, unnamed, between you,
That blooms in mortal time,
And will forever remain god's envy.