Passing through a narrow street,
All over known for its treat.
There, I saw an old lady sitting on a tiny seat,
Selling flowers to my lady, the lady of my dreams.

Oh, sweet! Hesitant I was to go closer to her at that very hour.
"How should I start the conversation?" She was already holding the flower.
Murmured and hummed, I opened my mouth,
Summoning with just a formal "hi."

She smiled and replied to my summon gracefully.
Stumbled I was—my brain lost its dictionary,
And started playing a stupid pictionary.
She laughed, called me "cute," and walked away.

I missed my chance—just by sly away.
Since then, I pass by day to day,
Though it distances my daily commune.
Forgetting this Cupid-spread disease is immune.

Infatuation, infectious infatuation.
Can anyone tell the difference between love and tormentous sensation.
both feels the same.
Why do I even play this game.
My heart cries for the one.
Should I even try?.
Big question mark on the existence of both the feelings.
They are good for nothing in terms of healings
They both don't care about the real feelings.

Why does my soul feel dead,
Still away from God?
The passion I had is gone and lost.
Amid all happy signs, why do I still feel this emptiness?

Without a picture of you, my songs have lost their melody.
Without you, even success feels like tragedy.
The brimming sunrays don't relay warmth.
Subtle heat is burning—not the skin, but something within.

Hollowness is the farewell gift you left.

Echoes of the Dark War
Trembled, blood-stained sounds all around,
Screeching swords, blasting grenades.
Killer of dreams, yet savior of the sovereign,
A necessary evil that melts your heart in disdain.

But let your pain be your pride,
For the one among the fight.
The girth and bravery warriors showcase
Is beyond any poet's pen's reach.

Have faith in them and stay strong.
It will ignite the fire of valor,
Till the battle stays.

Soul of the Lord—begone.
Flashing bullets haunts the celestial sea.
Fire and electricity are in every soldier's vain.
Freedom is the price.
Respect because that's the wage life has paid.

I heard a whisper, "Why return?—Heart still guarded."
Our fingers interlocked,
Sitting on a couch,
Headphones on,
Listening to the sweetest song.

Ancient and antique—both spirits together,
Writing verses of beyond,
Getting thoughts cozier in this windy storm.

A book on the side table,
With my scribbled wishes,
Engraving my thoughts on those empty pages.
Imagining the above scene, I wrote:
"When will this image become my experience?"

Up from the dream, it's just me and the storm.
Turning off the lamp,
I let this yet-to-happen memory—a cloudy form.

A Path of Conscience
A path to the prime of the primes.
A journey of a disciplined disciple.
Could I ever become a part of you?
For I am out of my line.
The tiniest or the most magnanimous being
Bestow their heads when they see you,
Sitting on your swing,
Waiting to shower your blessings—
To spread the word of the kind.
Love is you; so is war.

Will I be wandering,
Without your message,
If my purpose is resolved—
The one I was a strong believer in?
Or does something yet remain on my part,
To be called, in your terms, a real keeper?

I know not the meaning of the "why,"
An enquiry of aspirant saints,
A quest to be enlightened.
Let me take a breath, a sigh.
All this is above my capable power.
I am fine to be lived by your plan, your desire.

Just one wish that I whispered in your ear:
All I want is to be with you.
May my soul always be with you,
Without any worldly fear.

Let me be today a tattle tale,
Recite to you a story of two innocent males.
Two mature lads with a childlike flick,
Amid all chaos and bubbling pressure.
They went away for the slightest trip to leisure,
Escaping not very far—you can travel there without a car.

Walking zig-zag on a straight, empty road,
Telling stories of their mundane lives.
Thinking what to do to give life, like a kite,
A new height.
Courageous but dumb enough,
Never brave enough to say their hearts out loud.

Galavanting streets but unable to find their own whereabouts,
Funny are their faces, only the moon can see.
Only the silent wind knows their latest tweet.
Ranting over their gibberish snuggles,
They finished their street-brewed coffee.
They wore their noxious snug and said, "Guys, back to work."