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.

O, i wish i was a writer,
woven fine words and let all hell break loose.
Or a  sensuous dancer,
pranced on the rhythmic applause.
Definitely a great musician,
harped upon the melodies of life.
But am just a ****** peddler of thoughts,
in some old forgotten mossed lane,
beating the drums
& creating cacophony of my dreamy tales.

say hello
to this screen
where bridges to foreign lands
are built every day.

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...