Thinking
thirty years before
vacation means distance
the real joy is in journey
travel to reach in few days
and
one back with some sort
of tiredness,
drained in our energy
make interesting to
present life
Now
It's all missing
Coz
the speed in travel
rob the joy of vacation..
Is speed kills joy of distance in vacation??

She dances, the fire;
So adamantly.
So tenderly she sways.
She dances for her life.

Certain notes free her,
and then she hones in on her core,
her being.
Residing in that strength she waits;
patiently,
knowingly.

Surprising her audience with her bursts of movement,
she twirls with ease and shines so bright.
Her elegant flicker and crackling grace oppose her inner-struggle.
Yet she chooses not to be snuffed,
rather to dance on,
for life will not wait.

Onward, she thinks,
with no regret.
She dances for her life,
because, if not her, no one else will.

Seeing
New
Online Books sites
a small pains
whether
it's diminishing the
importance of Bookstores
in our
Country

Dishes served full are well laid on the table
prawns are glittering adornments
though only yesterday
their tentacles were tasting the river
not knowing they would be in another water
in the river of saliva
grinded and pulped for a tasty moksha.

The rain falls unabated from last night.

Who'll go out to feed?, asks a voice.

Does never being hungry feel the same stress
as being hungry most of the time?

The answer is in the clouded eyes
watching the eyes
joyful for one more chance.

Look no further than yourself,
be your own lamp
your own refuge.

The rain washed sky found a mirror in his eyes.

Yet for some time as the end neared
he was hearing an echo
from the deep well of nirvana
urging his weary feet toward a home
his aeons ago.

The frail bones feeling the pull
drove his weary feet through rains
to be on that land one last time.

Look no further
for howsoever long is the journey
must come to an end at home.

That night as he lay under the śāl tree
they strained to hear him whisper

All composite things decay,
strive diligently.

To him who is in love with me
You speak a language that I don’t speak
A language; for the fool who believe

You have a voice of gladness and the smile of insults
In my past, I wasn’t good enough then
And I am not good enough now,
with that being said a hidden beauty would blossom at
the right time:

Coming from your wildest fantasy: you came off
Like one of my most famous nursery rhymes
The pied piper of Hamelin, the joker the sweet talker
Sad images, broken promises, those days have been gone,
Of our fondest memories there were none,

Many a night in the breathless darkness,
in that small wooden house on top of the hill
I still remember that still voice, which had numbed me
I had lost all faith in the human race:
To link my past with the future, would be a **** up illusion:

Like cycling backward up a mole hill with a loaded gun
Forgotten languages need no symbol: any refills

nope!

About him who think he love me,
You speak a language what I am not so familiar with:

The moment you forget.
Mind wanders with regret.
Eyes blurred, lose focus.
“What’s my current purpose?”

Is spontaneous enough?
Chasing a dream, tough.
As a child we rushed,
what was all the fuss?

The lost moment finds.
The lost moment unwinds.
The lost moment reminds.
Messes with our minds.

In that moment there is clarity.
We connect with our reality.
Understand humanity.
Endless possibilities.
Test our comfortability.

A chance to breathe.
Rebirth and see.
Are we where
we want to be?

Take that lost moment,
to reset your focus.
To find yourself and
your new found purpose.