peace is when you feel at ease,
within your skin, in your own body,
peace is when, you close your eyes,
and exhale out, all your worries,
peace is when, you hold your love,
against the cold, of the winter nights,
peace is when, you hear the song,
of crickets, in the otherwise silent air,
peace is when, you could sleep,
without the occurrence, of nightmares,
peace is when, you see a flower,
and analyze, the vibrancy of its colors,
peace is when, someone thanks you,
for you have been good to them,
peace is when, you genuinely smile,
without a care, of those glaring eyes,
peace is when, you greet a friend,
even though, you have quarreled,
peace is when, you invoke your soul,
to shed away, the weights it carry,
peace is when, you cook a stew or curry,
and its aroma wafts, into your nostrils,
peace is when … whenever
you feel at peace

peace is when, I look into the mirror,
without sneering, at my own reflection,
peace is when, I could do something,
get a feel of activity, in these stationary days,
peace is when, I get to go outside,
and breathe the same air, as others,
peace is when, I find a song, long lost,
with the voice of which, I adjoin my voice,
peace is when, I realize something,
a solution, though temporary, but there,
peace is when, I receive a message,
from some one across the ocean,
peace is when, that some one asks me,
how I am, even though we have never met,
peace is when I find a piece of art,
beckoning me, to gape at it,
peace is when, I solve a puzzle,
for I see myself, in a positive light,
peace is when, I read someone’s writing,
and get caught into, the web of those words,
peace is when, I write few letters and punctuation,
dissolving my entirety into them,
peace is when… whenever I
forget about this life

I wish a piece of peace, for me,
and some more for you

seeking something, that doesn't exist,
the word, in mind, which still persists,
romantically known as peace,
similar to a flight of geese,
disappearing, in the mist,

it lies within, many insist,
all their voices, I do resist,
they are always, seeking a piece,
of something, that does not exist,

for all hazards, life has a list,
between noises, a game of whist,
cries of all the pain, kept on lease,
peace is an illusion, a fleece,
understand it, open your fist,
don’t seek something, that doesn’t exist

I want to be made, just a memory,
not concrete, just something abstract,
a play of the mind, real or unreal,
a question to be answered, but never been,

I want to be made, just a picture,
body-less, with nothing, to key the clogs
of a futile mind, left unacknowledged,
but for my colors grimacing at you,

I would want to be, just a single word,
you would sometimes, recite in your sleep,
having no soul, no truth, no reality to cope with,
defined by those letters, stringed together,

I would want to be a ripple on the pond,
in which you can see, your own distortion,
ignoring the worthlessness of me, the me
being left whirling around, in concentric circles,

I would want to be, the blow of air,
that comes by, to kiss your cheeks,
and you take it in, not having seen me,
being I am nothing but gas and vapor,

I would want to be, a single grain of soil,
indistinguishable, among many others,
of the same size, color, and shape,
broken up into a minute existence,

I would want, to be the dew drop,
of your red eyes, unnoticed, sneaking,
surviving in your pain, I am lost
when you wipe me away, to oblivion,

I would want to be a thing with no life,
for life has betrayed me, much and I shall
rest, as that memory, sand grain, blow of air,
or eye pearl, ripple, picture or just a mere word

they would wriggle their tongues,
teasing each other, from
opposite sides of the fence,
of sharp protrudes, which
could not cut the thread,
by which they were joined,
their comradeship intact, with
an amalgam of childish love,
and the simple plain desire,
of being with the other

through the window, of the
structures, that stood apart,
divided by a brick wall,
the tentacle eyed would
look, at the blooming friendship,
ready to plunge, their venom
into the hearts, of the innocents,
bidding for the time, when they
could feed, the mouths of them,
with the bitter seed, of animosity,

many years passed, everything passed,
the walls of those cursed shelters,
had bounded down, all that remained
was that fence, the knives of which
had gone blunt, and on the either side,
stood those, who knew each other once,
aware of the vacant space, in their chests,
(the yarn had gone loose, but there
was still a hope left, everything
had not gone, into trash yet)

on the gravel ground, they were stagnant,
reviving what was snatched from them,
how they were cheated, and left with
the ache, of losing what was theirs,
their eyes pierced, their souls apart,
and they veered away, not able to
grasp the pain, of their small lives,
losing balance, of the truth, they gained,
they walked away, finding their own ways,
what it was, it was lost, and that was all

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake
where the footprints of past appear at night,
the sands cry blood tears with him, for his sake,

forlorn blossoms grow there, for him to take,
to let them flow in waters, in his sight
on the bank of the shallow crimson lake,

where, her existence, he would carve, and make
his pain glow in the long day’s last light,
sands crying blood tears beneath him, for his sake,

the monotonous routine, he can’t break,
his wild saggy face seems to him just right,
on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,

he crawls, leaving his trail, of a weak snake,
tired of loss and living, he can not fight
sands crying blood tears, beneath him, for his sake,

he capitulates, no longer forsake
emptiness of darkness, so very quiet
on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,
where sands cry blood tears, with him, for his sake

being famished, malnourished of the words,
adorned on a sapphire platter, looking sumptuous,
but as I try to pick one of them, it disappears,
leaving behind thin air, devoid of those nouns,
adjectives, verbs and prepositions, I so desire,
but they are not for me to grab, and gobble down,
I am meant to sleep empty, without a trace
of something creative, to simmer in my mind,
the concoction of imagination, thus remains dried,
and I look for the flies with an incredible vision,
into the worlds of worlds of chronicles,
so that I could seize them into my fist and
appeal for a single ray of light, that could
awaken my senses, making me experience things,
agitating me to see new dreams, the slivers
of which can be scattered on the pages,
bringing to existence, the wondrous universes,
still unexplored, for me to step through,
and find that one fruit I could feast upon,
to fill up my drained urn with a fragment,
of a blessing of that miraculous muse

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers
on the street with few passerby
but there is still naught, not
a worrier, we are all sons of this soil
which has imbued in us the shield
of defense against pain, poverty,
wound and death, we are all idols
of this soil with our open eyes
that see but never could comprehend.

we are solemn in our expressions
but only if it could turn into actions
that we have long forgot the story of,
there is pain in every glance, and
that is all there is to it, our hands
clutching our ******* as we pass by,
our eyes squinted with the soil kernels
touched by his blood, fainted of life,
(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.

his toes are half hidden beneath a car
(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,
I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)
a turbaned man sees through his shield
while speaking on his phone, the lips
next to me tell of the blood I failed
to see or sniff and him being passed out
by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,
may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.