I took a detour,
gave in to the allure
of the bending road
half in shadows
beckoning.

Full bloomed flowers draped
the ivy that fell from the sky
surrounded by mystic elements of
a natural life,
I thought this is the place to be.

And I walked away
from the constant to the foretold,
from the legends to the myths,
wanting to relish
the myriad phases
that in a darker place
exists.

But, it was a detour,
not my decided road,
for though the journey
is what they talk about;
they are mostly, lost souls.
I am for that one goal
I set off to first find,
I came off the detour,
to leave the glory behind.

Before the storm,
after they are gone,
giving the cold shoulder,
under the fallen boulder,
under blooming spring,
idle wandering,
watching them sleep,
heartwrenching grief,
going home from work,
dinners with family,
reading that book again,
watching that movie,
eating on the sofa,
cooking a meal for one,
afternoon paintings,
written ramblings,
browing for random words,
clearing cluttered drawers,
on a crowded city street,
in a random group meet,
nod when an acquaintance greets,
but,

silent.

I have the keys,
but I ring the bell instead.
She opens the door always,
peering from behind,
wary, irritated eyes.

He stands behind her,
holding a ladle, most of the time,
with a soft smile on the face
he greets,
which I meet,
then set my bags aside.

The living room is a tidy map
of corners sectioned as per need,
a corner to pray,
a corner to store,
a corner to watch TV.
Hidden inside drawers
is a room for memories.

But this is not where I live,
but away in a room confined
to sleep, dreams, and reflections,
and one black rectangle
that keeps me aligned.

It is my escape route,
from the noise the vessels make;
in the kitchen when they thump,
on the table where they clamour,
from chasing footsteps that chase each other
to and away in tantrums.

I have one window that slopes
towards a paradise that chirps and glows
I have a door that remains closed
to the only house that I ever had,
love, but cannot adore.

I restrict myself to that one room,
in the end, the darkened corner,
and pass through the clamouring kitchen
and the rumbling living room
every morning,
to step out of that door.

I open doors.

Hunting for the perfect house.

I dislike their colored walls.

Rooms too big, too crowded, too glum
the feeling is wrong;

undone.

mistake.

I close doors.

Looking for perfection.

I like plain walls I can paint.

Too much? Too little?

I am counting days

walking from the street to street

finding my way.

I have been cruel
and unrepentant,
and on my knees
yearning for certain
benevolences
people promised
good people
get.

There is I suppose
a logic
to why it is not so tragic
I don't get when I didn't give
'cuz I was too busy
wanting
the best.

My conscience woke
when I stabbed a man
in the heart with barb
again.
After hours or regret
and notes that confessed
I burnt it down for I knew
nothing changes.
I am still
upset.

Confess
                     in
                    the
                    tongue
                    of
silence
                   devoid
                   of
                   your
                   lips
                   a
kiss

true
love.

In dying embers I write my name,
in trodden paths there is dying shame
in the lingering minds of the days gone by
are tea leaves patterns in a language sublime.

Madness, like rodents, scurries in pairs,
when one pulls you further, the other despairs.
The voices I see and the faces I hear
are not real, but that is neither here nor there.

In the grooves between my split mind
there is a map of an eternal conquest,
it runs down to the corners
of this enchanted world,
and boasts answers to those questions
of which you've never even heard.