You say, “It’s one-sided.”
You’re right.
Because I’ll always stand —
On the side where you are.

I know I won't hear your voice—
Calling my name from behind,
Like it used to...

But still I hear those whispers.
Whispers that make my words tremble—
Now, only in gestures
I repeat the silent vespers.

I know I have lost you.
But maybe just for a few moments.
My heart doesn't want to summon this defeat.
Kneeling down
On this deserted land—
Unable to put your name out of mind.
Like a sage enchants the mighty grace,
I say it on repeat.

How strange it is—
A seeker never gets a glimpse of the swan.
But a reckless peasant sees them everywhere.

Once you stop moving aggressively and take cautious, calm steps,
You’ll begin to see their glimpses all around.

The question is:
How can a seeker turn himself back into a peasant?
Has love turned him into something else?

How strange it is—
In life, we keep running to achieve; to gain; to find; or to discover
Running in and Running out—
Only to lose our souls and the time — it runs out.
A swan unaware—
There was a seeker once who kept her as a reverie
To the grave.
Strange again yet a dearly held reverie.

Perhaps! I keep falling for you...
I keep breaking my heart for you..
For my feelings are boundless—
Perhaps! This love is designed for a loop
I will keep building the castles of dreams
And you will keep bursting them with fierce gleam

Perhaps!  I am not the Romeo that you want
But you are the Juliet that I need.
These breaking lines—
Don't follow a pattern of repeat.
Perhaps! Your touch was just a touch.
But my nerves, my sense felt them too much.
Beyond the definition of touch.

My fear is not to die alone
That is certain,
But is to live in the crowd
Where I cannot call anybody my home.
Perhaps! Not to call is destiny.
Maybe I am that unlucky among many.

You feel the world;
Did you ever feel?
The collusion; My heart's reverb.
Here I am standing on this bridge
Of this renowned suburb.

In this darkness,
I am hovering under this dim light.
You are named as the daughter of the Dew.
Or crowned a  princess of rain instead—
And I?
No meaning, Just a name —
Poorest among all - the peasant face
As in the stories — the gloomy chase.

Walking on this wooden ridge,
Waiting for that angelic smile,
Waiting for that heavenly face.

How to be with you?
Can I be among those few
Yes, the ones
Who always get a chance to meet you.

I know now, why those poets laughed at me.
And called me as wise among the fools
I adore you but I hate this one sided love
A Spiteful tool.

I am just blessed with some stories  
Some are true but felt like imagination.  
Some are imagination but they feel like the truth  
An unusual journey; An unusual troop  
Cold breezes caressing your face.  
But I feel warmth from your words  
That reaches me after echoing in the wood.  

This palm tree has put his foot down.  
Determined to find you—  
Fighting that stormy cloud.  
Sun waits for the rise—  
Let us say about the real love.  
Even if it is not advised by the wise.  

Far and beyond—  
Yes, the poet's favorite phrase...  
Did I miss that horizon.  
Where life was not to chase.  

I am not a cheat, presumed by a lie..  
Just a traveller with a tear ached eye.  
Heavy heart, slow start..  
But still bowing to this journey.  
Like that angel of morning star.  
Hmm. The angel of morning star.

What Are Photos to Poetry?

I asked this question to myself many a time.
Is it me, or do all photos hum a rhyme—
Choirs of imagery singing together,
Emotions now, all around me, they start to gather.

Laughter chattering with tears and amuse,
Anger and logic—arguing.
I am out, but not confused.

Shoulders on shoulders,
A hand in hand.
I am watching hilarious metaphors,
A settling sun, and a captured angelic moonrise.

Sitting on a bench by the railway ridge,
Drenched by raindrops.
After this long flicker on my glowing screen,
Holding my shop of dream,
I laid my book on that bench—
Reveled in,
watching a paper writing through my hand.

My hands stained with ink.
While I was wondering about the world,
Without a wink.

To cater and build a bridge
From my mind to that wisdom ridge,
To find the unfound.

Away and mystical —
A fact astound.
Similar like in the movies,
The folklore and those daunting stories for newbies.

Fables of magic and justice.
Some lines about flowers being combustive.
Have you heard a story of an electrifying
Thunderbird?...

Dreamy stains of blue took me to an unknown land —
Land without pain, untouched by disdain.
A place as stated in our religious sect.
A place from where pyramids and temples found their way to *****.

Far from this fence and away from this trap —
A world of worlds where universe is not full,
But just a piece — an abstract.