For long, my house has been lying deserted
My gate has not been opened wide to let in anyone
No guest has so far come to visit me
Tired of distant wanderings
I have come here to listen to the beat of silence
Occasionally broken by the sound
Of birds' laughing wings overhead
Here I have brooding shadows for company
Hermit like I wrap myself in my solitude

Now abruptly when you announce your arrival
I feel excited and equally perplexed
What shall I serve you? I am at a loss
My hearth has not been lighted for long
And my kitchen pots remain empty
I know I should serve you
Something chilled or warm
In my menu, I have a simple surprise
But not of the edible kind
Nor delectable to your palate
But as I have known you since long
I hope it will appease you

In poetry’s platter
I shall serve my thoughts warm,
Garnered in the lonely hours
Of my solitude!

The only dish I have!

I've tried binge-watching you,

But the script is inconsistent.

Something about the characters

Is forced.

Each episode is too long,

Overly dramatic.

You think you’re a comedy;

You’re horror.

The production values are stellar,

But they’re wasted on you.

At 155 episodes and 7 seasons,

You should have ended after the first arc.

Your ratings are high.

So what?

Enjoy the attention.

I’m not coming back.

Thoughts of you flood my mind...

                                                        ­             ...and I'm ok with*  drowning.

The universe is suede and black pepper--
a subtle aroma like coffee in a cafe. It's accompanied by
clean laundry air-drying a few miles away. But when
preoccupied with dancing like a blur,
it smells like a drunk. Wine is spilled on the laundry.
A party consumes the land.
The seasoning is mixed into a soup that will never be eaten,
because everyone is too busy
enjoying themselves too much.
The universe's leather shoes are kicked to the wings.