take a ride on a magic carpet
fly away from the little things
chase those whims and thrills
conquer dreams in the realm of kings

hold tight and find purchase
the ride down is no delight
the only way from up is down
to fall is the only way to wake

fly and make your own time,
bridge the chasm between the two
all of nothing is a principle,
afforded by only a few.

It was better when I didn't know about you,
it was better, when my heart didn't ache
in the distressed night, you chased away
my fantasies with your face

I now have a name,
to cry out, and reach for,
while I draw a blank,
I have nothing better to dream for

more than my fantasies,
your reality I desire,
my prize, my possession,
my ever burning fire

It was better when I didn't know about you
It was better when my heart didn't ache
for with your smile, and unspoken eyes,
you took my heart away.

Snort,
like
when
water
wrestles
with
your
nose,
when
someone
steps
on
your
toes.

I washed my plate
thrice I rinsed
I couldn't stand
the thought
of leaving behind
any trace
of food.

I want a clean plate.

fingers
tightly wrapped
to comfort, clutch harder,
a single caress
to reinstate
the vows
two golden bands made,
every day.

Blank face
stares at a blank page
there was so much to tell
the thoughts whirling in space
within that mind,
confused,
edgy,
but nothing would spill.
If the finger could be pricked,
and blood poured,
its dark mad rush
could exhibit,
the craving contained,
but there was no puncture
that could let out the rage,
and let in air,
that could whistle through the veins
and fill the hollow gut
that remained.

One song title at a time
is how we we write our story
of secrets told in silence
and yearnings
sung by melodies.

Glances as we pass by
is how we make time stop
a few hundred hours
of us together
in that pause.

Fleeting brushes of our hand
is how we toe the line
the spark of heat
sending shivers
rekindled every time.

Distant in a crowd
is how we pull each other near
every nod is a connection,
each chin lift makes
the distance disappear.

Leaving things unsaid
is how we confess our feelings
broken talks, abrupt halts,
and heavy silences are
what we find appealing.

Daily morning greetings
is how we surrender to fate
following the course it sets
not yet willing to call
whatever this is
a mistake.

I look at the mirror
to only find her staring back,
she who's mastered the art of smiling
and to hide those stray tear tracks.

Silence is her weapon of choice,
it's edgy tip enough to raise dread,
in face of her frosty ire, one would
prefer the bursts of temper instead.

Like the duck that paddles in calm,
she too rests surrounded by muck
and underneath, her fury churns,
ready to blast it all to dust,

She's picked up every insult,
stored it in a corner to recollect
and designs her story of vindication
ripping apart every shred of regret.

Her hands are coated in blood
of the desires that she choked to death
she has emerged strong from battles
and slayed monsters who rest under her bed.

The dirt underneath her nails
should tell you the moral of her story,
she is not deterred by pain,
she is not enamored by false glory.

I see her staring back at me,
and raise her chin in pride,
her scars wave the sign of victory,
I only need to follow in stride.

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.

we are duly taught
when moved from one
to another spot
what was will longer be
and soon things will turn
to memory
and that fondness
will gladly lurk
on the shoulders
which will soon shirk
what was then,
but isn't now
it is the way
things turn about

irrevocably.

The man I love is broken,
my dark secret in the open,
all of me is now
revealed.
Broken stars on a crimson sky
I walked on glass bright as light
towards a shadow I couldn't deny
was a lie.
Fate decreed, I hurt my feet,
and waking up I felt relieved
under the noon time sun
my madness would ebb
and I would set free.
This yearning then
wouldn't leave me trembling
and glowing eyes in the dark
wouldn't make me retreat.
Yet there I go,
the same room again
where windows stand tall,
and he with them,
in moving shadows,
my broken man,
bends his head and stretches his hand
and I stand still,
watching all of this,
while I'm asleep.

Too many voices in my head
too much noise when things are said
and I struggle from word to word,
to string together all I've heard
but they're relentless, these thoughts of mine
have no reason to subside
and so they scream, and mutter, and breathe
their putrid venom into me,
seeping down like angel dust,
into my soul and veins and thus
wanting me to give in, or rise,
how am I to know
when my mind is in flight?
from rage to silence,
from passion to death
I am seeing, and feeling
the mirage is to burst
and in a million little pieces
I have been blown apart,
in a million little places
i have been set to blast

if only, if only I knew
how to make this stop.

the horizon
claims its mortality
by consuming the sun,
the sky
pronounces its existence
by littering stars,

bound by no one
two infinites collide
ear-marking the spread of time
on a time sheet,

with grids and figures
and algorithms,
innocuously designed
to measure oblivion
set lucidly aside.

I'm afraid
I shall never be that butterfly
which burst into flames of color
and was adored every hour
it lived its flitting life,
I am too wise,
to know I'm the caterpillar
that crawls through nature
in pain, it is never vain
to realize,
the day it is most treasured,
is the day when it dies.

Dying embers of a blazing sun
shielding the sky
even in its last moments,
such purpose is what I seek
when I am shred,
scattered from west to east.

Bow in elegance when waves trash,
accept a fate that sand castles don't last
find my hold in a universe so grand,
know that even stars are made
with a plan.

In the pink waters of a complacent sea,
I watch silhouettes
and the lessons they carry,
looking to horizons,
to find faith like the blind
to know after a sunset
one waits for the sunrise.

in the middle of the night,
at the dullest hour of the day
when i am restless,
and lazy,
and ambling out
my mind cast away,
in the middle of the ride
on my bus in eventide,
when my rage falters
and parries
with the wisdom
of my sage,
until the sky changes color
and shadows change shape,
when caught in the cold
of the lost and the unknown,
when watching birds twitter
and fly to back love home,
in the middle of a book,
after a sweet song,
when dancing to a tune
or making my face frown,
I only need to think of you
to keep going my way,
hoping against hope,
I will meet you,
someday.

Twirl the ring around my finger
when I flip you the bird,
hold a halo and a forked tail
in crowded comfort.
Rose-tinted eyes blink in mystique
when the alluring panther
roars in defeat.
Defiance is heady;
a few pounds of snow,
am lost in sensation
when you pound the door.
There is no faces; but places and noise
and few open cases left on the floor.
Roll a bottle till it clinks on the wall,
when I lie in pieces,
before I take the fall.

Flitting
color
mesmerizes
and
they
watch,
the
glorious
flight

unknowing
the
ugly

before
butterfly.

I'm letting go.
to be somebody
I don't know yet.

I'm moving on
to greet somebody
I often hear about.

I touched the sky,
twinkled beside a star,
flew by the gushing wind,
to touch down, gingerly.

I changed colors,
shook the frost that held on,
threw on a mantle with
smiley badges,
and battled a storm in spring.

I grew a few thorns,
kept friends at bay,
took a solitary sojourn
reminiscing yesterdays.

but...

now..

I'm letting go
to be somebody
I don't know yet.

I'm moving on
to greet somebody
I often hear about.

Its like having a song stuck in your head
that plagues you at the oddest times,
when you forget,
when you forgive,
when you are about to lose your mind.
There are pieces which hollow out,
parts which blare like a horn,
and you whistle a tune,
to cover the blanks,
and keep repeating that song.
You twist the words,
to make it your own,
hum the stretch which lingers,
so much that you breathe in tune.
And you play it over and over
to comfort the oddest hour which peaks,
because nothing really,
is as comforting,
as certainty.
Even that of an annoying song.

there was no past
to remember,
and forget,
there is no future,
to long for,
and wait,
there is no present,
to consider,
and let go,
there is nothing
to honestly think about
anymore,

yet when you walk past,
my eyes wonder,
did you hear my desire
in the sigh of breath
that left my lips
and make their way
to yours

you make no sense,
but you are fire
and I've been cold
for far too long.

I drizzle like rain clouds;
in a stormy weather I blow
might gusts of wind that rattle
and shatter staid glass doors.

Enough now of the molten sun;
no need for the lava that flows inside.
We are made of sterner stuff,
all we need is two plonks of ice!

Like the nauseating rumble
crawling up my throat, I glide
in the sheath of subdued sensation
all is well, all is alright.

my knees have grown
a little brittle,
my feet,
a little worn,
my elbows hurt
from tucking them in
tight,
my neck hurts
from not holding it
right,
my shoulders ache
for the burden,
is sometimes just too great
my heart is weary
and often
forlorn,
my soul is silent
I think it too
feels that,
it can't bear anymore.

It was the middle of spring
when our love took root,
I had tears rolling down my cheek,
he had a smile that said he knew.
His arm was around my shoulder,
and mine around his waist,
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

It was the beginning of summer
and like the blazing sun,
our passion bloomed,
days together, hours with each other
even time grew lazy with us two.
His arm was around my shoulder
and mine was around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

Towards the end of autumn
leaves began fall,
our foreheads often wrinkled,
in harsh tones we began to talk.
He had plans, and I had a dream,
he was stubborn as I had ever been.
Our silences drew longer,
our worlds a shade apart,
when we did meet halfway,
the resentment followed fast.
His arm was around my shoulder
and mine was around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

It was on one winter morning
that he finally left,
he carried his dreams,
on proud shoulders,
leaving behind a cold bed.
His arm was around my shoulder
mine around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold is his shirt
I wept as I saw
our photograph;
a reminder of our days.

edge of the cliff
melding shadows
of water and sky

the endless delight
in the freedom of flight
is a promise that keeps
when it is only done right

momentary wane
of the strength
I will reclaim

I want to hold your hand

surreptitious fall
of the might
that will rise tall

will you hold mine again?

Let me grab that blanket
to wrap around ourselves,
a pillow for the head
and feet,
a bear to cuddle perhaps,
hold on, this needs to be done
properly!
I'll make a quick dash
pass those shoes,
bright by the wall,
to grab something to eat;
something easy, fast,
comforting and plenty,
that'll never make me
feel that pang;
go hungry.
Under, now! Hurry!
It is the perfect dark,
it is the perfect quiet,
to settle under the canvas
and fall into sleep.
Away now, from that cut,
crawl further up,
and their sounds will fade,
they'll even stop flashing lights,
and patting our walls
to pull us away.
Hold on tight, don't fear
they can't get to us anymore,
we have been here too long,
we have come in too deep,
see, that rent in our home
can't even be seen.
Let us sleep.

It is like watching a plane land
while you're in it,
by the wings,
seeing the end drawing close
and feeling the ... feeling,
in the pit of your stomach
in the edge of your toes
and you clench,
well, everywhere,
bracing yourself
(as if that'll help)
for a rough landing
that'll shake you,
startle you,
but what you really fear
is what comes after the jolt,
for it is momentary,
sometimes absent
(when artfully done)
but sometimes
the jolt only begins
the turn for things
to go worse
and go wrong
and for the ground
to slide from beneath you
and for the plane
to slide and fall...

It is like watching a plane land.

Closed,
there is twilight,
and my hand is held tight,
the moon sings a lullaby
and there is a scent of promise
heavy as the air.

Open,
there is brilliance
but my palm is held open
the wind is missing
and the sound of music
comes to an end.

And I blink,
once, twice
to the ever changing
afterlife.

The flower dripped red
to the crusted ground
shed its wings
and broke to death
crumbled
to not be found
while the sky howled
turned green with rage
and cast a hue so gory
that the little humans
who crawled didn't seem
all that ugly.
They lashed their whips
and clanged their chain
growled in anger and pain,
howled the wounded
like the dog they sat next to
and licked the healing
scars they sheltered
from that ball of fire
which sputtered every hour
and darts of flame swept the sky
the human roamed naked
on their claws and feet,
they shed their clothes
when they faced the heat,
their face twisted in frowns,
they'd left their polyester shoes behind
they didn't need anymore
to cast the dye

Why do we catch fireflies in jar?
Why do we carry a net and chase
butterflies?
Why the need to capture beauty
then gawk while it dies
seeps away like the dwindling pleasure
which gets replaced by something wild.

Why do we blind ourselves
from our intricate dark side?
Why do we attempt to disguise
our malice under the robe of
the 'civilized'
when we are id, we are insane
we are the cutters
we are the chained
and we drown while we bury
and we crumble while we push

in layers and layers we carry
the agonizing truth

monsters we made, in mirrors we see
evil isn't another, is it underneath.

no cobbled stones
no ****** swords
just a bruised fist
a barrel of ale
and I'll set off home alone
leather boots
a winter sweater
to ward off the chill
that settles
I have no place
for remorse or sorrow
I have a life to build

to be conspicuously happy
feels like riding a bike,
backwards,

you've been told it is fun
(and you assume it is too!)
but the mechanisms
are so faulty
your feet refuse to rotate wrong,
your brain is confused and takes long
to right itself,
and eventually its forward-backward again

because that's the right way,
that is how your feet have been trained.

I thought I learnt
how to walk on them heels
with the risk of flight
and the shame faced plight
of knowing I could fall,
and the world will know it all,
but I thought I'd mastered the art
of walking on a difficult path,
with those heels on.

Apparently I had not,
so head over heels I went,
right into the circle of judgment,
and with my dark places exposed,
and the air on my face blowing cold
I just walked up,
and kept walking ahead.

With only a slight limp in sight.

I'm writing in circles
my mind pliant
to ridiculous words
that choose to course
down any lane
in my brain
and I type constantly
and click on Backspace
defiant to relearn
the art of writing
poetry.

But it not my brain
that fails
but something within me
that refuses to place
itself where it should be
so that I can feel things right
and not keep up restlessly
flailing my figurative limbs
looking around for inspiration

wanting to write,
poetry.

love is pain
so deep it shrivels
everything it touches

mighty,
to spread waves
of heat and chills

selfish to evoke
memories of the time
the soul pulsed

devious
to throb in places
the fingers can't trace

love is death
of the concept of self
and the emerging after-self

soaring
to heights beyond measure
and fall in a blind rush

crippling
sounds and voices
to mourn in silence

love is life
of a buoy left at sea
after a raging storm

drifting.

Worn shoes
fall apart,
on a road smooth,
the despairing threads
and mended stitches
in pain for tomorrow,
never to claim,
they didn't try,
but to only claim
it is not always
for the strong
to survive.

You taught me to feel again
in all the ways that I'd forgotten,
I was sheltered in a cocoon
I considered could never be broken,
you proved me wrong
when you breached my shields
so easily,
made me set my guards down
so well,
that I never even knew
the person
who stepped outside

And now that you're gone
things are back the way they used to be,
I am up at night again
for different reasons
there is no song
that touches my soul
it is again a struggle,
to write poetry.

I don't know
if I'll ever be alright again,
I don't think I ever was
honestly.

Ripples on a steady pond
chase each other to the brink
cease to exist therein
but aren't to be denied
their try. I don't know why.
The pond remains heavy
without any recollection
of the stories that are told
by the sun's reflection
on its shallow
facade,
which never lasts.

There
are no
words
I can rote
to eloquently convey
what I can
with the rise
of one finger
whilst on the stage
under the spotlight
and the silhouette'd audience
titled.

The finger trembles
in the dark.

The silhouettes blurs
after the spark.

I miss our walks in the rain,
when we used to live
in wonder and anticipate
the future, when we used to step
on water and laugh,
happy in that moment
of togetherness
and completeness,
away from the abject world
that poses questions
and answers,
in our own little
wonderland,
seemingly unaware
of the possibility
that things may go wrong,
and conscious of the faith
that great things are to come.

I miss our walks in the rain
holding each other's hand,
only to wriggly free
and skip ahead,
only to hop in merry;
leaving one to watch,
one to wait,
not always together
in battling life's
undue favors of time.

I miss our walks in the rain
for when it poured,
we'd wait,
holding time still
by sheer will,
unafraid;
not of the consequences
but of bearing them,
for isn't that what
the walk was all about?
It was us preparing
to march ahead,
with our head held high
into the storm,
unswayed.

thoughts flit through my brain
gathering wool,
getting stuck
in the crevices
absorbing sense
that occasionally leaks,
and I end up
writing poetry.

give me a memory,
any memory,
where you are happy,
and it can mask,
the worst thing ever said,
the meanest thing ever done,
the crudest thing you ever saw
and I'll not write anymore.

life feels like
reading through
a dictionary,
without looking
for a specific
word.

relationships
are like shopping
in a mall,
where nothing seems
to suit,
and the ones you try
don't fit.

coming home seems like
wading through
a pond
in a heavy cotton skirt,
pulling me deeper,
than  I
want to go.

I had reasons to doubt
for she had led me astray
one season
and like barnacles
she caused unease,
I did have cause for worry.
Her lure,
akin to a siren,
rivaled the beam of the lighthouse
reaching beyond the horizon
I was convinced
was made to keep.
She ebbed to only surmount
and sheath me in her charm,
her scent had me follow
like a puppy does its master
for she was to lead,
and I was to be lead,
that was the way,
this is what she
always
said.

I asked the lady by the door,
peeping in see the room,
"Do you know where I sit?"
She smiled and said,
"Your  card is placed!"

"That's the problem!" I cried,
I seem to have forgotten my name.

"What am I called inside the room?
Is it the same when I'm out, or at home?
Do I have only one name,
or can I have more,
like, go by four?"

There was noise in the room,
a constant wave of a murmur,
and I stood there, alone and scared
trying so hard to remember

I lost my name outside the room
I lost my table, my people, my place

I stood outside the room for a while,
then silently walked away.

Unprecedented

unlike the storm which rages
or the volcano that shudders
before its release,
or the tsunami that warns
like the tornado which
tumults everything about

wild fire is unprecedented
a strike of a match
a careless fuse
an unwarranted gust of wind
spreads a wave so large
it consumes all,
and kills everything.

wild fire, I have inside.

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.

collected flyer miles
for 27 years of
to and fro
from distant places
and the many faces
who sat by me
during the journey

memories remain collected
the smiles, gestures and hugs
all together in one coupon
ready to be redeemed

I'll be moving on now
away from the small world
to see to places, new faces
into the unknown.

Holding on to the spool
gets difficult
when the thread gets tugged
from behind
and I have to stop.
Turn around, look back,
and wonder how to get it
un-stuck.
I can't stay and get loose,
I can't move forward
without.

I walk back
re-trace the path
that got me so far.

I wish I had tugged instead,
and severed the bond,
I wish I could drop the spool
and just keep moving on.

in shades and hues
they come,
from the horizon,
before the sun rises
they run,
in a frenzied fashion,
after the sun set
they settle,
with no remorse
as if the day wasn't
as nettled,
as the night before.