Orion's shoulder is dimmer now,
And I await a cosmic funeral;
For a beauty that is born of death,
And is every breath a miracle-
Delights me.

And Nature's diadem-
That I swear my allegiance to,
Thus makes me wonder

How in myriad flavors, comes beauty;
Like the sight of your love from afar,
The warmth of falling tears, the twinkle,
Or the death of a glorious star-
That once boldly shone;
But as a graveless corpse now rests

In the void, alone.

Today,it rained.
I sat down at my piano,
And composed her an apology.

The patter of rain.

I looked outside,
And saw a tempestuous spillage of emotions,
And an unambiguous uttering of poetic truth;
That I never could discover on my own–
I saw the trees tell me explicitly.
God has His ways.
It was one.

I never would have guided,
My ever-so-guarded heart–
To yield with all honor retained,
And accept this silent insatiable feeling–
Love.
It always had been love;
That defeated time,
In the want of immortality,
In the pursuit of eternity;
That was abundant in scarcity,
And that sat like one timid angel,
In the abyss of my heart,
And lit it up.

Today, it rained.
I sat down at my paino,
And felt eternal in the silence between the notes.

Tomorrow, it will rain.
I will sit down at my piano,
And sing a song to the moments of eternity,
That God makes us experience,
Wearing this mortal suit;
In the name of love.

Lover's Hymn:

Notes of music,
Written on a scarlet parchment,
Left unsigned, sound like her;
The sweetest of God's tunes.
Alas, of such a token, vanity be the consummation?

Oh, but then how the Summer Sun,
That the Bard measured his beloved against,
Dissolves into the heavenly ether;
And how the Moon, looks but so marred!
Fie, Mortals, who be no kin to her, whose unwithering grace evades all reason.

By poor sonnets, and by humble songs,
Love's pursuit, that one might consider vain,
Gives eternal joy, for a moment's pain,

Sage's Sermon:

Never, never a lover's discretion believe,
For never a lover's eye does poise fair,
And never does his ear justly measure.
For so is the grasp of unhinged affection;
That a moment's joy seems to last forever,
And a lifetime's misery seems meaningless.

I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."

Hark, while the wasteland breathes out silent whims,
And see, as night's aura cloaks distant trees;
A sinister echo of ancient hymns,
Floats up, in a creeping midsummer breeze.

As the miles sum up - an anxious bearing,
Rushes a vague fright up the fragile spine;
But with the city lights on watch, nearing,
This unsettling fear slides down the incline.

The unattended anxiety does go,
Which this travel in the dark did arise;
City lights torch a new fret although,
But far less weary, it, in question, lies.

Wearisome measures of the restless nights,
Merit resistance by the city lights.

A hundred well-metered verses written,
In praise, fall too short, in numbers too few;
And with the lengthened thoughtless hours smitten,
I stay charmed with her eye's impatient hue.


Blind will I go and believe all your lies,
A death will I die for each of your eyes.

Let you be the first thing I behold
On days, the morning sun feels worthless,
On days, the ***** sky seems dusty gray,
On days, the summer wind makes the trees look pale.

And on days, the bags under my eyes mourn life itself,
And on days, the screaming kid next door wakes me,
And on days, the things that I ******* up make me regret.

But I earnestly wish that you be the first thing I behold,
On beautiful sunless noons, when the clouds sing as a choir,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on mid-winter mornings, when gusty wind stops to see the silent grass-blades holding timid dewdrops,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on nights when the drowsy sky stands embroidered with the cosmic jewelry,
So I could tell you that you look lovely.

Let you be the first thing I behold,
So I could tell you that you look lovely,
Each and every day, 'Till death do us part'.

A lean plain-faced insignificant figure,
With a green ribbon around his neck holding a card,
Dressed in the same khaki clothes everyday,
Walks the walk of an old ghost that knows,
Where it has come from,
But has just been denied redemption.
Rather, he has been cursed,
With an object-less stare,
An ear deaf to the world around - and,
Long pointless hours, forcing him to give in,
To a world, he merely dared to live in.

Greetings, Sky.
I have been away.
It's been years,I reckon.
But I have not forgotten how tenderly you cradled me like the grandmother I never had.
I loved you like a love dream and you loved me back.
And yes,I remember,
How like a ball was every night,when the stars danced to sweet cosmic tunes!
How like an encounter with God Himself, Reading to me the story of creation!
But how like a dream,
It ended!

I came to you the other night,
For the sake of a humble discourse.
I talked at the top of my lungs,
And you didn't answer.
Everything has changed.
I must add,
That friend who often visited you with me,
The one who was very fond of you,
Wants to rid himself of his own existence now.
But so would I wish on myself, should you remain indifferent,any longer.
Why! God!
Why the inevitability of certain circumstances handicaps us, to even practise our own will?

I,thus in shame cry and bid you adieu,
And I pray we mend our friendship anew!

Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything-
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?

Distorted midday dreams
Deepest unwelcome fears
Uttering thunderous screams
With inglorious tears

A warm but scentless gaze
Limited by these walls
Lies fixed on you these days
While a dread in me crawls

In the remembrance of bows and curtsies,
Amidst the shed leaves,of pale memories,
I stood marred by, and married to your heart,
Thus, in question,your each and every part.

But like the sun at night stood forgotten,
Looking for a love never-begotten;
And seeking all the answers I was due,
Much like a priest sworn,did I worship you.

But unanswered prayers had love, undone,
Thus then against me, your self-conceit won.

Let the breeze whisper
Maiden songs the river knows
You loved like the kiss
Under that fair mistletoe
While the hourglass stood calm

I dreamt a dream but when the night was young,
And the moonlight sang lullabies,that doves-
Fair-feathered slept to,while boughs at guard hung,
Like a lover stands eyeing her, he loves.

I dreamt a dream that I had discovered,
In the most unexpected of places,
In epiphanic manner uncovered,
The true possessor of divine graces.

There was a chant that I heard in the dream,
That made me, unknowingly, pledge my soul;
Thus, 'To thee,to thee' did I sing and scream,
And woke up,as if released on parole.

(Later.)

Queen Mab,yet again blessed me at hour wee,
And O, did I dream? And what did I see?

I remember vividly,
The days of my tender immaturity,
That complemented an air of naivety I had.
But now I have learnt,
How to maintain a reticent manner,
An agreeable countenance,
And an unceasing anesthesia.

I have tamed my heart not to beat fast at the sight of you,
But it still needs practice.
It needs practice because it has never known how to face its fears calmly.
So, it remains hidden right here in my chest,
Eavesdropping on you.

I have taught the sinews of my wrinkled lips to smile freely.
I have taught them to smile freely because sorrow chokes me.
Sorrow chokes me because I cannot resist the thoughts of your indifference,
Running wildly down the nerves into each sombre inch of my skin,
And every inch of my skin mutilating itself,
Tattooing your name,
Slowly.
Silently.
'Painfully'.

I wish I could look into your eyes,
But Aphrodite won't let me;
For a mere mortal must not heavenly pleasures cherish.

I wish your majestic gait could attain the liquidity of a waltz,
And yet, lose not a scintilla of that grandeur,
That made modest a proud admirer.

I wish I could touch the hands I saw in a dream,
Bestowing spring upon the autumn-struck lilacs,
Lying keen, by the empty street.

I wish I could make you hear 'L'amour est un oiseaux rebelle',
That my earnest love for you, on 'festive' eves sings,
To commemorate grief, that days make me oblivious to.

Now! I call upon you!
Come here,
And be the harbinger to my bliss.

Come here, I pray,
And help catch every moment that dies,
Before we even know it existed.

O come here,and let's sing,
'Libiamo, libiamo'
Before death even knows we exist.

O you ,that I devoutly loved, have changed,
And the glorious sunshine of your summer has faded.

Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.

I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?

Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?

I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.

A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.

Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.

What weirdos really!

Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.

Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.

I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.

I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?

Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?

Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.

Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.

Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.

Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.

Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.

Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.

If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.

Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.

O Death,be not unkind,
For this manner of delay,
One might find unpleasant.
Being thrown into an unceasing progression to turmoil;
Why would you be not wished for,
And why would you be not thought a relief?
Hush.
Your pride deafens you,
Thus,you hear not.
Your might hoodwinks you,
Thus,you heed not.
And perhaps,your schedule binds you,
Thus,you meet not.

I wish we weren't so - temporary.
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
And I wish no such assortment of consonants and vowels was ever invented.
But then there's no way around it,or is there?

There was a piano that I played.
An old one,but now its keys are broken.
And I keep on counting as more break.
A life,much like this piano -O the comedian that God is!
I keep on counting - as my friends go away.
I won't hear both-the broken keys,the friends gone.

Friend 1
(My first friend in college - a birthday gift from God,who went away the next birthday)
Remember how I'd always say to you,
'Don't respond to my crap. I'm again falling for a girl.'
And you'd reply briefly,
'Good idea. Falling fast.'

Friend 2
Remember how we'd always talk, starting with,
'Promise you won't tell anybody?'
And we'd talk for hours exchanging embarrassing anecdotes,
Yet,not get tired of it at all.

Friend 3
Remember how you'd say,
'I saw you sitting alone in college.I wanted to come.'
And I would answer,
'Yeah,I do that these days.'

I wish you weren't so - temporary - all of you!
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
I wish you all stayed.
I wish your echoes didn't torment me,the way they do.

(7 pm - sad news)
A soul departed.
And I could not be but incredulous that how so natural a quietus was to be met, when one would most deny it.

(8 pm)
An inch closer to reality.
Or else this Death, would've been as devoid of taste and essence as a heart that but stalks the fleeting pleasures of an unworthy world.

(9 pm)
I pitied him. And myself (rather selfishly).
He lost a mother.
Oh he lost a mother, and I have one to lose!

I wonder, with what subtlety have my heart and mind deceived my  sense of sympathy, because
I remember vaguely whether my tears were in realization of the misery of an ever-rejoicing friend,
Or in mere anticipation of what was written in heavens, for my mother.

I never really admired the man he (my friend) was.
And I never really appreciated his general lack of concern and the apparent absence of mindful demeanor.
But when I came to know the person he really was,
I cried that night.
And I cried that night talking of him with other friends.
He had found his breezy spring here, seven hours away from the silent autumn that was meant to strike his home.

And now I knew him,
Whose patient smile, kissing the perpetuity of bright harmonies,
Denied bowing down to the contours of a winter twilight.

Oh, now I knew him,
Whose eyes had shone like a thousand summer sun, even
When night's crawling terrors lay unhidden;
Despite the profundity of darkness that showed no mercy.

He lost a mother, oh he lost a mother.
And I have one to lose.

(12:30 am - 7:30 am - the travel)
A visit.
To the autumn, seven hours away.
In the middle of nowhere.
Where he had lost a mother,
While the white desert mourned
And the clouds hung low in melancholy.

There, ah, there in the ivory clouds I saw a cleft.
It must have been the door to heaven!
It must have been opened for his mother.
It must have been opened for her.

(8 am)
I met my friend.
He looked alive, not brilliantly though,
In submission to God's unquestionable will.
Had I looked deeper, I would have found vivacity stone-dead,
I would have found unfathomable grief,
And I would have found life,
Trying to hide from the terrors of its own self.

(2 pm - the funeral)

(Condolences)

(3:30 pm - Return)
The tough terrain that we traversed on our way here was smoother now,
And the mimosas had reappeared, and the desert seemed less dull.
I wonder why we forget too easily, the matters of "the bourn from where no traveler returns".
I wonder why we fall too easily for the winter even though we know what freezings it would bring.
But then it's only so human to forget.
So human to forget.

I hear the Violins,
Vouching for each trivial,
But fair feature of yours that lies chaste.

I hear the Violas,
Bearing the melancholy,
Your heart conceals deep within.

I hear the Cellos,
Pouring the velvety essence of love,
In my sullen ears.

I hear the Woodwinds,
Singing for beauty, calling for love-
All in unison.

But then the Clarinet disagrees,
For the sheer taste of dissonance.
There,the Oboe tries to moderate,
As the Flute flares up,
Emphatically proposing the passion be mutual.
Then the Strings intervene,
And all play in unison-
The purest articulation of the desire,
For love - yet unmet.

I hear the Brass finally,
With Percussion on its side,
Sounding as though Zeus were to erase Mount Olympus,
Arising turmoil,
Provoking the Strings and the Winds,
Ousting the gentle harmonies,
And ousting the gentle melodies,
And alas! ousting the very notion of love.

Yet,I love the symphony.
And You - are the symphony.
The most beautiful I've heard.

Gentle winter sun,
Peeking through the hazy window,
Fiddling with your hair as your head rested on my shoulder,
While, to Florence we journeyed,
Away from the Sicilian soil,
Whose Olives kept us captives for so long.

Oh! And remember how-
The Florentine pavements answered our footsteps,
And picturesque italian figures smiled at our liberty,
And how-
The sound of mandolin, and of accordion;
The carefree ramblings,the mindless tangos in the Italian streets,
And the sheer aura of it all,
Moved me-
And how it moved you!

But it was later in Vatican,
Ah! it was then,
When God became Michelangelo for me,
And you,the ceiling of Sistine Chapel.

What length dies sorrow,and dies joy what breadth;
What fool claims this 'the ecstasy of death'?
What show these withered springs,these summers dimmed;
Show what autumn leaves,but man's last cold breath?

Last vial of mirth spilt, and last vial of grief;
Lies what fun in this mockery of relief?
Awaits calm? And think lingers good ahead?
Stands but far from the prospect of belief.

All the hearts of lead,all the hearts of gold,
All the timid,meek men,and all those bold,
All the kings and subjects,masters and slaves,
Must all hear death,hear all its truth told.

Death is dull and cold,death is all but joy,
Death is nature's decree,death is God's toy.

'What do you do these days?'
I count seconds,and minutes,and hours.
I count grey leaves and petals of flowers.
I count the blinks of my tedious eyes,
I reckon the distance of distant cries,
Faint and futile.
Muffled and still.

What can I do,
When happy,young days are past,
Or so apparently seems?

I sat by the window,peering into the street.
That street I had seen too many brawls in,
And had enjoyed the people celebrate,
And had seen people leave and come,
And had known those kids,who played there,
Fading into the nothingness of adulthood.
I was one of them too,perhaps.

In that tattered dress of life,
I sat by the window,
Looking into the past.
And tears came out paving my cheeks,
For a stream of unchartered emotions.
And those emitions welcoming a whole stampede,
Of memories,killing me inside out.

While by that window,
Whose glass had been blurred by the ruthlessness of time,
I hesitated to face myself.
I had regrets,too many to name any,
I had done myself wrongs,
But quite fortunately,forfeit was to be paid,
And was to be paid the next day,by myself to me!

The ensemble was quiet.
And strange voices talked.
While I stood by the pillar against the big wooden door,
Looking around to see if I could dance that night.

Lights hung low from the elegant ceiling
Of that hall,built with a distinct victorian taste.
A girl in pink, sitting by the staircase, rested her cheeks on her hands,
Looking around to see if she could dance that night.

Then the ensemble played.
Lights grew bright.
The hall turned into a boundless ballroom.
And music moved the numb hands and feet,
To chase each melodious note,
Down a surreal abbey,
To the realm of a passionate,ecstatic relief,
I had not witnessed before.

This cast a spell.
My eyes sparkled.
Her eyes sparkled.
We moved toward each other,
With an irresistible air of this divine passion guiding us through.
So we danced that night,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced thereafter,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced infinitely.

Woeful,white wisp of the vile winter falls,
Upon the lifeless gray trees,by the road
(That leads to the city of 'quiet' brawls),
Dying in silent miserable abode.

As the eve further pours its mystic mist,
A somber thought of unsavory past,
Does,in my wilting heart,ruthlessly list,
The wild, pitiless curses that you cast.

Yet,of things I recall from December,
You lie unsurpassed,you lie far above,
The only shade of pink,I remember,
And yes,the only shade of pink I love.

Why should I then with this sorry face talk,
When toward you,I unwarily walk?

My treacherous hands,
Having fragility hold their dexterity a hostage,
On an old time-bitten Grand,
Sitting in dust,out of tune,
Play the nocturne of my hopeless night.

And one grief,
Your grief
(Summoning all its cousins,commanding
The weak sinews of my tender hands,
To play the requiem to my long un-granted wish)
Still speaks and prays and cries inside me,
As if it were blind to the wilderness deep within.

I am not but forced to question myself.
Should I still warm the strings of this mellow pianoforte,
With the constant rush of unsettling emotions for you,
Or should I just fade into an uneasy silence,
Deeming my emotions mundane,
And die a pitiable death?

'It feels so resuscitating,'
Said he,
'To be back home.'
But I stood blank-faced.
What expression, my stone-carved visage, incapable of addressing the liberty of his enthusiasm,should have expressed?
I felt nothing.
And when I could not comprehend the notion of his having this unusually intense sense of pleasure,
I, almost blushing in embarrassment,asked,
'What makes you talk of your home with this melodramatic emotion?'
'I do not see why one won't act like this on a subject like that?'
Said he,expressing an unkind surprise.
I thought it undesirable to speak of the gravity of my suffering and the generosity of the unceasing torment.
I remained silent.
But in a constant struggle to think the matter out, I talked to myself,
'I do not remember when was the last time,I saw relief-gentle and quiet-
Let alone a yet undiscovered fervour, sprouting in me on returning home.
But I,most honestly,wonder if I have ever had a 'home' or have simply kept myself deluded into believing that this fortified chamber is my home,
In which I seem to have been kept a prisoner,
Away from my parents, far away from the family I have always craved for.
My naivete tells me that I do have a 'Father'-and a 'Mother'.
But I do not have 'Parents'-as it concerns the reality of my situation.
I suppose this random assortment of thoughts might just make me seem crazy.
For all I want this very moment is,
Either a home,a true home,
Or an eternal sleep in which 'indifference' becomes the essence of my existence.
Both,I guess,are not possible-
Such is my misery.

By that enchanted lake,
With the trees playing a serenade,
A madness grew inside,
When I waltzed with you that night.

How timid were we then,
And how our feet trembled,with each beat-
Yet,we danced with no respite,
By that unusual tide!

And when that moonlit lake,
Conducted your eyes-to play to mine,
A certain melodious rite!
God could not but cherish the sight.

Later,that benign darkness,
Grew all over the place,and masked us
As we danced in delight,
That silent,lovely night.

We bowed,in curtsy,then,
And we vowed to waltz forever.But
Why did you,out of despite,
Forget that vow,we vowed that night?

That night was naught,but
A chaotic fantasy,I wish was real.
Having all other pleasures denied,
I,still,wish I was by your side.

All because of what I fantasized,
A sorrow still lives that should've died.

O wind,thou that art scented with the scents,
Of a thousand fallen leaves and grass,art
The hoper's hope,and carry,in torrents,
The wishes of all,of all that have heart.

Bear my wish! I wish that my soul be gone!
Be gone with thee,there,where no burdens lie,
On the poor flesh,and that I be alone,
So I may,my own meek self falsify!

But if you can't carry my sullied soul,
Take my lips to my love,so I may speak,
And in my gentlest manner,kiss her all.
Or bring me the scent of her rosy cheek!

Be steady,O wind,for on thee I rest,
My hope,that does all my love manifest.

I heard something today.
And it was not like anything I had ever heard.
It wasn't,
The song of a grosbeak,
Or the rustle of spring leaves,
Or the whisper of morning breeze,
Or the deafening silence of the sky above,
Or the patter of rain on a gloomy winter eve,
Or the crackle of that fire,too visible in my eyes,
Or the throbbing of my heart,seeking someone,
Or the static from somewhere unknown,
Or the hush,descending over a crowd;of faces all too alien to me,
Or the echo of familiar voices under that autumn-struck tree,
Or the footsteps of a mother rushing towards her crying child,
Or the Quiet singing to someone in the wild,
Or the beauteous music of the Orient,
Or of the Occident.
All these sounds sound humble
Before what I heard today.
.
I heard your voice!

Mom,
I still have a pen in my hand
But I am unable to wield it,
Because
My perpetual tears spoil the page,
I try to write on.
I've not been able to write you,
A poem,
That you might love;
Random lines,
That you might know I'm out there,
Somewhere;
Or even a word.
I haven't even got a paper,
Spoiled with ink,
That I be admonished for.
I know,I left you sad,
But,Mom, know that
I slayed the cowards,who
In God's curse clad,
Took away your lovely lad,
With that lunch box in hand
You prepared with that fatigued body of yours,
I couldn't devour.
(I'm sorry for that too)
I'm there,
Mom,
You told me tales of.

I can't hold a harp
And mourn;
For the strings are too weak to bear,
The strain.

When Sol's fury reigned upon olden folk,
And the day helped,but their easy arrest,
Day's ***** on heavenly order broke,
So,the earthlings fatal crawled on soil blest.

Workmen,weavers,craftsmen,not one of name,
Flexed their sinews to please the monarch's eye,
The poor dwelled under an eternal flame,
When heavens did in kingly castles lie.

The sharpest edge and the heaviest stone,
'Bove men's head hung,under the kingly throne.

It was intricate,
Rather spooky.
With
A wobbly stage,
Dimmed lights,
An ever-pressing roof,
A truly maleficent air.
And I,
A 'poor player' in desperation clad,
Acted but poorly,
With you in front,
By that marbled pillar.

I should've been less 'me',
When a glimpse,
In the most natural of ways,
Made me lose my not-so-hollow days.
But,
For 'what'?

I should've been less 'me',
When these days,
Every second,I guess,
I tried to be myself less.
Just,
For 'nothing'?

I should've been less 'me',
When I willed,
To just go and speak,
But couldn't for my 'Self' was weak.
Only,
For 'you'!

But when I,not being 'me',
'Besieged' you,finding you alone,
And spoke to you in the gentlest tone,
Only to hear your lips utter a word,
Yet unsaid,yet unheard.
But you failed me!

And-
I dare say,now,
You should've been less 'you',
Just this time!
For 'me'.
Just this time?

I imagined your eyes fixed at me.
And they were.
But you won't accept.
You know,
I love the way you lie,
Not saying a word,
And ignoring the truth,
That your eyes,
Wandering around me,
And your heart,
Wondering about me,
Most fearlessly say.
They say all what you fear to,
And they yell what you dare not tell,
And they, Huh! Your eyes and heart, speak,
As if my ears would hear them,
And perhaps they do,
When even with no lip of yours to articulate,
Your eyes speak,
And your heart too,
'I love you'.

If no word be fair enough for thee,how,
Sweet nymph,and what,O dear,shall I call thee?
Would 'my one' be just,for I own thee now,
In my thoughts,or the 'Fair one' thy name be?

With thee being my love,wherefore and why,
Shall I name thee,when thou dost not need one?
In this claim,if I err,or if I lie,
Death and I may meet,my life be undone.

Thou wilt,that for thy fair self be composed,
A joyous waltz,a beauteous ballet,
Flowery ballads,or lines finely prosed,
For content,that thou my beloved stay!

Let me ,to thee, speak the truth,O dear dove,
I love thee not, but for thou art my love.

I fear,
Not my death,
But another life,
That is what induces a mental strife.
O! Would that I were naught,
Why my soul,my body sought?
And caught me this pestilence,
My Existence.