the one I got never to see
the one wiped out silently
yet the most precious

what could you have been child
killed as the fetus!

the one that was never born
whose smiles walls didn’t adorn
yet the most precious

what could you have been child
killed as the fetus!

the one never known to me
the one that was never to be
yet the most precious

what could you have been child
killed as the fetus!

the one my own broken piece
the one I would ever miss
and the most precious

what could you have been child
killed as the fetus!

This silent question I asked
for answer endless explored
where’s love grains husked
beyond eyes quietly kept stored!

Is it on the bed we sleep
whose sheet bears marks of lust
or something that’s more deep
hidden neath her layer of crust!

What’s the place love she stores
ceaseless flowing from the start
veiled in her all daily chores
I erred to be the place called heart!

In the house it’s a small nook
here her love makes me dumb
standing mesmerized as she cooks
I wait from her hand love’s crumbs!

So the only thing you lay claim to
is you are a poet.

He was referring to my CV
where it was mentioned boldly
the art I dabble in.

But that’s no skill
shrugged the questioner
doesn’t hone your ability
in finance management
or marketing strategy

can’t fetch one good deal
for the company
your poetry

but to be frank with you
I too wrote a few
only to dump before it got me
your poetry

otherwise I fear
I would not have been here.

Outside were faces in nervous wait.

I wondered if among them
was another poet!

I sing again in praise of love unknown,
In ancient form, composed of stolen phrase.
This timeless moment everything is shown,
And I am forgotten in the uncounted ways
Narcissistic I's you and me and they;
Desire, embodied to be laid aside
One last of time to make the passion play:
One love to fill the emptiness inside
Whence all the horror of the endless 'me',
Lost, loveless, fearful, cruel, un-free:
That not-thing knot that I refuse to be
And am... Am not, and only dying see.
This dying borning life is always new,
And I am love and life, and I am you.

The Romans were right.
Be it death, be it life,
One can bear anything.
When the waves go rough,
Hold on to nothing.

Layered with guilt and destruction,
You wrestle with the past.
"You can start anew"; a lie,
There's no such thing as an empty canvas.



You live in ruins,
You build on ruins,
People surrounding you like relics.
You cannot create a starting point.
Embrace the past,
and never abandon any memory,
Be it beautiful, be it cruel.

Unmoving restless agony of thought,
Mechanical, incarcerated by hungry fears,
Imprisoned by desire, by 'is' and 'ought',
I wander in a labyrinth of old ideas,
And when a breath of perfume comes my way,
Or love unnoticed for wakens in my eye,
I crush it with the urge to seize the day
And poison heaven with a greedy lie.
One time there is to live and that is now,
Though yesterday is all that I can hold,
And looking to tomorrow with my 'How?'
The love I know is always dead and cold.
Yet love endures and I must surely end -
Myself the foe, and death the loyal friend.