"Tropical sun, you ****** cheat
never expected, you'd behave
like this" in his chair sitting huddled,
driving away cold with every means
at his command,
he murmured to himself,
not bothered about the state of affairs
of anything, big or small,
aren't we all mortals, after all?
What's the point in being anxious
about the state of economy or environment
if you have no interest in this arrangement
beyond certain point,
all one has to worry is about is today
the grey, cold, overcast, hopeless day
that ruins the pleasure one yearns for
weep over the love denied,
that's what this day is fit for.

There is a knock on the door
is it the cold wind throwing twigs
or plain wishful thinking, of a day
when love was in abundance, knocking at door
but it's persistent,who cloud it be
in a cold frozen, godforsaken mean morning
celebrating deserted lovers and loneliness..
He opens the door, a hole in to cold
like a frozen wonder gone astray
in a comely female form past presents
it's her, his uncertain love, once again at her best
and look at her, the special love potion
for the most gloomy day of dejection and self hate.

She hugs him with a mother's warm hold
plants a passion stirring kiss on his cold crusty lips
when the lover in him takes over him with a vengeance
his  universe takes a quick turnabout
to love, longing and hope, he resolved to reject
cold sun is no more a disappointment,
just the opposite, sowing new seeds of warmth,
Isn't it then true, what we hear, every now and then
"Woman is the center of man's universe" Amen

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Spider kisses
Poison drops
Web wrapped
Life stops

Inject the sting
Pierce the heart
Blackened soul
Ripped apart

Drain my life
Silken bound
Breath no more
Safe and sound

oh morning rain
wash away my pain
take away my shame,
and soften this heart of stone

morning moon flying high
in the waking sky
help me befriend the dark

oh darkness in my soul
help me accept you
so I may walk in the *Light

I need to be
What I am
When she's here;
Not what
I am
When she's not.

when you go to that lane
where the houses are graves
their rooms only pain
shadows' dark waves

where winds pause morose
light is barred
closed doors and windows
keep sunshine debarred

where walls are deadened
reeking of moss
the way is a dead end
weighed with cross

you would meet a hollow face
covered in hood
who would ask *all these days
you did what good.