Would the taste of joy be less sweet if we didn't experience pain?

Would success be less triumphant if we never knew failure?

Would the innocence of a child be less endearing if corruption wasn't pending?

Would the right to freedom be less powerful if we didn't experience tyranny?

Would this poem be less impactful if we could not find an answer?

The star-studded velvet sky
Where the transcendent lay
Each twinkle seems an illusion
A radiant endeavour to fulfil
A scene, so picturesque
Embracing a unique marvel

Beaming with eternal bliss
The sky; unceasing
With an intense gleam, a faint smile
An angel watches over
A promising energy
Surges through the desolate emptiness

The moon, with an extraordinary shine
Beams across the darkness
A divinity fills my heart
Is this the empowering shine
of the moonlit candle?

Even the bones
she throws clenched
he thanks her for...

Madame Blaine isn't happy.

Every night his apparitions appear
and they're getting darer by the day
(sorry, by the night).

Her fault she didn't tell him to go
the first few days on the southern window
rather she felt bad as he stood out there
thought it better to offer him chair.

His hesitation stoked her kindness
not much she would lose if sat face to face
recapitulating life they were together
barring the first few spent talking the weather.

Once in the room he gave her his ears
(or so it seemed)
as she talked of loneliness with hint of tears
blinking and nodding an occasional sigh
but not once offering a courtesy of reply.

He would sit unobtrusive in the gentlest manner
till his proposal last night dropped the sky on her
(sorry, the ceiling)
the first words he spoke shattered her peace

May I Diane, offer you a kiss?

She fumbled to decide an aye or a nay
silence was all her voice could say
the apparition rose to grab the moment
reading in her muteness a loud consent.

Since then she is wondering if she can boast
of having been kissed by one now a ghost
or hide within her as an indelible shame
an indulgence that could earn her bad name.

Sometimes I feel old,
So old that I treat the people of my age like babies,
Like they would get on a broom stick and fly to foreign lands,
over the hills and across the sea,
Over the mountains draped in snow,
Over the autumn fields green and yellow
Through the forest where my childhood stood still
Scared and lonely
I look at my fingers and the pen lying dead on my diary
Dear world, do you know that I exist?
I am trying to bridge the distance with poetry
And fill the scars with dreams
Dear sun, please stay
A little longer i beg

I tried to scrub your name
out of my head,
but all I got was skin and soap
under my nails.

a sharp razor
an outstretched arm
a sudden darkness



When she dumped you
It should have been on top of a bed of cow itch
Unfortunately, for us the seven-year itch continues



A Steep Hill
Your silver motorbike
Why not take it for a test run