that innocent boy
got scratched,
fooling around an old rusty knife

that careless man
punctured his heart,
toying a young bud with wild thorn

and me, what a shame!
got badly wounded,
by the delicate petals
of prettiest flower in the town.

for days you trail through the depths of the forest
and as you step out on the other side,
finally off its shadow
you feel an unknown urge, to turn back, for a one last look.

and in that very moment, for the first time
you feel the whole forest, with its all might, vastness and mystery
rushing through you, filling your heart with senses never known
and it only stops, when it finds it's way, through your tear drops.

you know, after the last line
looking back at a poem, does with me the same.

my restraint, may seem like an impregnable enemy line
but when your love blooms and wind sniffs the wound of your heart,
let the fragrance sneak in and cut me like an elvish sword.

after a while, the door sensed
that it's left to itself now
to figure out whether to remain open or be closed.
this sudden realization,
made it very uncomfortable.

from the moment she walked out of that door,
everyone in the house, had the same strange feeling.

let’s get ready dear,
it’s your first day at school
and you don’t want to be late? do you?

this was when, I lost my childhood
as I accidentally acquired sense of time.

on some benches, people never sat
on some there was always someone.

on some branches, birds never rested
on some there was always a one.

don’t worry my boy,
life is not a bench or a branch
but a park and a tree.

We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

though he looked calm
he was worried all the way
as his sons carried him on their broad shoulders.

the dead brahmin, finally smiled
as he was laid
on the funeral pyre
made of finest sandalwood 
from the forest around.

that was his last wish to his sons,
you must use chandan and nothing else.
don’t give me to some low-cast corkwood
even before sum of my deeds is calculated,
i know, on the pyre, it will burn me, to the hell.

a man
in the crowd
is a page in the book
one of the many
in a stack

a man
standing alone,
is a lost page, of poetry.

if the Sun is scaled down
to a dot on the paper
.
like the one above
then the nearest star
will be a dot
four miles apart.

space is this endless poetry
by the universe,
where it writes two words
just too far apart.

three two one...
at the edge of the dark alley
i stopped,
and they broke on to me.

before they could touch me
i handed them my body
and i ran off.
ran off, in such a despair
to hide myself safely
in my mother's fearless tears.

In their eyes
she, is the holy river
and I, am a doubtful sinner.

I drowned myself
deep in Ganges.

Now she, is a holier-than-thou
and I, am a confessed sinner.

A man, stood on the deck
proudly admiring a joyous crowd
gathered at the bay,
I did it!
I sailed seas, discovered lands
and conquered formidable oceans.
I did it!

The Ship, cried out loud.
hey it was me!
I am the one, who did it.
I sailed wild tides,
felt the depths of earth in my belly
flagged & wrenched in the mighty winds.
while you my friend,
never left safety of the deck.
It's me who did it.

You! you are just a ship
I created you, I made you.

My goodman, you believe that
'God created you
and everything else on the earth'
so either you can be a believer
or a creator.
not both, you decide!

oh dear,
only out of complaint
of my cheeks
& their fear
of getting drizzly  
& losing a makeup smear
I’m hiding my feelings
& holding
my sorrow & tears!

a sudden loneliness
rushed into me
and I stopped still.
as I froze,
I can clearly see now
my poem standing along with me.
 
she shrugged
and kept walking ahead
as I remain confined,
and left to watch her,
getting demystified.
 
moments later
as she paused, turned
and looked back at me.
I ran
like a lost child
and clinched her
never,
never
to feel lonely
ever
again.