though her face was inscrutable, like a cloudy sky,
deceptively calm she was, in her grief.
at the poet's funeral his girl didn't sob or even flinch,
true love in his life was his poetry, it was evident,
"If love is passionate, beyond all  limits like his
it would be fulfilled only in death" she said and fell mute.
when her words gushed out like blood from a ****,
they missed the firmness in her voice, that ringed aloud,
it pointed to this:  her crazy love for her lover , leaves her no choice.

Born and brewing on the road
A choice on me has been bestowed
To grant one side my presence there
Take time to choose; contrast, compare.

Offers, one side, an easy life
Let's sing all day, and play the fife!
The other, it seems, is harder still,
Yet full of life; a forest's trill.

"Come here!" one says, "there's much to do!"
"Have fear!" one says, "it's brutal too!"
"It's crueler there," says one, in rebuttal.
"It's cruel, but fair," one says with a scuttle.

Forever struck, undecided on the road
For which side is better; my humble abode?
Made soon is this choice, for ahead comes upon
Two lights on the hill, like a double edged dawn

Quick like a deer, I unfold into action.
Be part of the woods? Or a slave unto fashion?
To the judgement of others, their eyes on my back?
Or the home of the hunters, to survive their attack?
To the glistening great cities with the smog thickened air?
Or the rolling green trees, all alone in despair?

So towards the lights I will run, on the road I will ride.
For I will always remain with one foot on each side.

Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Airs naught wholly bright as thee.

Is there a kneel for end of days—
Songs, deeds for those who prey?
Is there light breaking pied wings,
Or is heaven overlord to all things?

Sun spots feathering coated crest,
Talons top spires mountain breast,
When rivers of the wind fail all fowl,
What grace and splendour in a cowl?

Is there a psalm in the wailing winds,
A hymn that carries all innocent sins,
Or a fable, blue as stupendous skies,
A truest place where redemption lies?

The sea slides with lost ocean birds
And blue wings coast, row unheard,
Edging the skies with razors' tinge,
Seeding the immortal spark begins.

Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Naught airs wholly bright as thee.


                  — after William Blake

There is a story to be told,
either we should attempt,
together or keep it a secret.
Pain is the glue that joins us,
the story has different narratives
that won't converge, in all places
hence it is less than joyous.

Joys are but a rainbow till evening,
the rains of happiness are sparse,
                           we still are waiting
the drought destroys everything green,
love is a dying stream in between-
ego trips and never ending pain.

Let us tell the story in one voice,
let go the pain of lost choices,
you should be lying on my chest,
sobbing and I must be  consoling softly,
"Honey, don't cry, it's not your fault or mine"
still you are inconsolable in your grief.
              Then you see my eyes are
              two pools flooding in pain.

Ashes scatter in the trees
As I fall upon my knees.
Whispered words of muted grief
To me the sorrow's been bequethed.

From the metal can in hand
You catch the wind
Like powdered sand.
Goodbye to you
My dearest friend,
I'll see you soon,
Around the bend.

Farewell to tears
That never dry
Everytime 
I say goodbye.
Ashes fall
Spirits rise.
Life goes on
And heartache dies.

In my darkest hour, by the rage of sun,
I met her in a shower of April days,
Riding to the moon in twined études,
The dry chrysalis of winter shells
Gave way to lightness, glaze,
The rain in our eyes, amaze,
Her voice as it fluted, broke,
Like feathers from a wandering bird,
Were my wings of iridescence and joy
And we were blind when we were born,
We were blind as bells of floating grace,
Lived forever by such a new shore,
Such ends of buzzing time,
As May flies.