I sit in the dark lane,
a lane of thoughts,
that is called.

Peeping with noise,
i tell them to stay....
stay because i want to unfold myself.

The Self?
Errr..
What is my self?
That self which spills with confused thoughts?
Blinkered,
Blinded.
Or
The silent one,
which smiles deep inside?

I begin to walk,
an awakened walk...
in harmony with both the selves.
want to walk till the  shores of...
the supreme,
that supreme which is the infinite,
and that infinite is in little me!

He is the unreachable,
still i sometimes manage to reach.
But soon he evades,
impregnates me with those two.

And i sit again .
all exasperated in my lane,
a lane of thoughts that is called...

Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie  in sepulcher.

Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious  and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.

Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.

Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.

Still I  followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley  of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.


There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******.

Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..

I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…

To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.

We're faking.
Happiness lasts but a second.
That fragile fleeting moment before the click of a shutter.
It fades away after your eyes stop stinging.

Sometimes, the sky is so blue that it hurts.
I can't ever reach it with these hands.

I wonder if we were ever really happy.
I try to capture your smile.
But this camera is old, slow.

We're breaking.
Photo frames slips off walls, non-existent.
I hide inside corners of doors, my hands shielding my ears.
Angry voices shake the foundations of this house.
These photographs were only a mere second of our whole lifetime.
But they aren't exactly telling lies.
We were happy once.

You show me your world,
catchy pop rhythms,
smiles and childish laughter;
I long for something more,
something different,
something that cannot be described
in words or song.
I know from the beginning
that this cannot be.

I show you my world;
you catch a glimpse through
the twilight gloom,
amongst distant thunderheads.
You can see, in the distance,
a vast, colorless landscape.
Mountains that disappear into the heavens,
endless plains outstretched into oblivion;
this is my world, you see?
This is me.

Your sweetness can be topped,
somewhat, with a cherry;
an ice cream sundae dripping with
warm fudge and decadent condiments.
But this is not me, you see?
This cannot be.

Fingers and toes curling
My fingers, your toes
Eyes and walls closing
Lips and lips watering
At the thought of a Lover’s kiss

I want to run my tongue
In delicate lines
Up and down your thighs
Smiling while You’re gasping
In my passing
Lips to the other side

There is an art to teasing
Having you twitching and wishing
I’d get to the pleasing, seeming
To pass closer and closer each time
Up and down your thighs

And while fingertips
Are a sorry substitute for Lover’s lips
It only takes the slightest brush
To have you quivering at my touch
And you cannot disguise
The passion building in your eyes
As I run my hands
Up and down your thighs

I’ll kiss your lips
No more stalling
As my kisses, slowly falling
And your heartbeat quickly rising
Fabric dropping, realizing
That finally this time
I’m not kissing towards your thighs.