A strange wind tells me

                                                                ­  its time to open my hands
&
let go.

A stranger rain tells me
                                            
                                            Howl together.

A strange lightning strikes me
                             I Howl with a knowing that ...
                                                                ­ ....I should've let go
just a second ago.

She told me that she wanted to kiss me.

I’d swooned over her curves since a long-long time

Dreamt of the moment she was ready to say yes to my 2-year long request to share her warmth.

So, I jumped with joy, but was numb to say anything more.

I thought, she’d be different.

I thought, she’d know.

I thought she’d understood nothing more, yet nothing less

Than what I’d always said-
At the end of the day, leave me alone!

Like most people,
She too thought that this was merely ornamental.

And she said that I hated love because I’ve not been loved enough.


Gwaaah! Such lies.

Such coarse hopes people prison within and dream more about the torture.  

But, there was a difference.

I was not one among them.
I had no rousing dreams.
I did not want any romance, I merely wanted her body.

No.
Co-existence without ***** was prettier.

Wetten.
              ****.
                          *******
and Clean it off with a gush of the jet.  

Like most liars, she too lied that she hated commitment.
And echoed with me.
Like more flimsy folks, she was flaying too.

She was not my falancho.

So when I finally told her that I didn’t have time for her.

It was with a heavy heart
                                              because I had time for her body, but no time for her emotions. Or mine to be shared.

It’s a burden to even think that I may start it all over again.
                                               So ….

When she told me that I will never see her again,

               I was smiling inside.
                                                       And I silently told her,
*******!

Miles past, on the road ahead,
I saw the man pause while on pace-4 speed,
And fall down,

Through my balcony.

He was not that far,
Just as I’d caught up with the twists and shrinks
On his face, cheeks and limbs on a bare whole.

He looked at me.
He told it all.

Yes.                                       From miles past my window,
I could feel his gaze, no, the silver strands of his corny memories.
Coming to me,
Without a stamp, seal or crossed arms.

                                                               ­       Searing through me.

Without an apology, fear or want, he fell with a shushed thud on the tar.

I faint at the glimpse of the first heartbeat of a known nightmare of an unknown tomorrow,
I look up to the heavens,
Wondering if God will come down this moment,
Embrace me and Erase my decaying past.
The past that has corroded my innards,
With an immediate recovery for the pricked,
I vaguely whisper the chants of a mourner’s suicidal rush,
His wish.
I tremble with the blasphemic sweat and the unnerving chill
Of a child with Malaria.
I wonder if I have the guts to die.
I wonder if I can stop all that I want to stop
All that I want to hail.
I wink at the worldly judgement of praise,
For me.
I grunt at their superficial love,
Directed towards the unreal self.
By now.
Thanks to you, my fellow humans.
For now
I know not.
Who Iam or who you are.

A sadness that I implore.
It is sweet yet, indignating.
Why, you might ask?
The truth is …
There is no truth once you are God.
Everything is true.
To the criminal who ***** and killed his daughters
To the dying voices of the martyr mothers who protected their family.
Foucault says it too.
It is true. What is better than truth?
That question will end the day we realise that we are all true.
Even in the art of lying, there is a truth.
There is pukka.
There is an inexplicable oneness.
It is unappeasable.
One has to accept it.

Even your murderer has a point.

There is a crease to my lips,
That bends into the cheekbones only when I think about Him.
I don’t know why but it is endless.
I know that complete self of myself when the crease of happiness happens.
I know that there is nothing ahead. Neither woe nor smile.

Certainly.

But, well, we humans don’t learn in go, do we? (Or a million …)
I don’t comprehend why the sadness has to implore me.
But, it does.
It is my pleasant indignation.
I have none else to convict.

Do you know when does the poesy auspiciously fly into a poet?
During the usual festivities. Like one this new year.
It is just that, their image is opposite.

They seclude their selves to include into a sad session of poesy rather than enjoying the striking hours of new year’s eve …
Like the rest.
Our joy is in avoiding our dreams, exactly when it appears, isn’t it?
Because thawing the pain in mute is ******,
every time.

Do you know what is to have no place to cry?
Because the world has not described your pains yet?
Nowhere to shudder its hefty sighs down,
Nowhere to paw the overwhelming discomfort yet.