What loss would it be?
What cost would it take?
To borrow such wings,
To fly to the King?

Follow his lead,
To hear him teach,
To know what it means,
To believe in the Dream.

Watch him dance in the grass,
Drinking from heaven's glass,
Singing,
"Free at Last... Free at Last..."

Your luscious lips fervently seek mine and the time freezes,
the cosmic hum, the primordial love anthem is heard within us,

Your signature scent, perilously plays fiddle with my olfactory nerves,
a garden of love within me blooms, hear the sonorous drone of bees !

A web of silver threads from your eyes, makes me your captive,
stitches the insignia of our love in my heart with the touch of a feather.

On the back of my neck, your broken breath permeates ****** heat,
the hold around my waist,tells what your words couldn't spell out.

There is a little space within our heart
Like a small screen for images from a projector to fall
An incessant cinema at play; the modern one, of course!
Swiftly edited imagery convey much
Than a long winding start to end boring script

Faces, Places, Situations, Emotions, everything
Become an image, some you remember;
And some, you do not forget;
Then, some, you cannot forget
Is memory made of remembering the unforgotten?

The Mathemagician taught:
Align names with “time or space” to remember a person
Took my own name; said ‘Kal’ is ‘time’ and ‘esh’, ‘God’
Remember Kalesh as “God of Time”
During lunch, he asked me “What’s your Name?”

To remember, you need a reason
A cheque to arrive every month;
A date to keep; a scar in the mirror;
Some ******; some mystery around the moves;
But, as the reason weakens, remembrance fades

To retain you in that Space within the heart, I have…
Those midnights in my lap, with your eyes gazed at “Tom and Jerry”;
Those tasting sessions, I rated awesome-
Every dish you made in that “Barbie Kitchen set”;
The endless times, losing the fist fights, as you had “Boost for energy”
My shameless switch overs of “positions” for your annual debates;

Not to forget; not, to remember...

Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
*******
who flung it away in
extreme
disgust.
Van, ****** don't want
ears
they want
money.
I guess that's why you were
such a great
painter: you
didn't understand
much
else.

It started with a passing thought,
and soon became a word,
and then a series of words
that led to action,
and then a series of actions,
that let to an event,
and then a series of events,
that led to a situation,
and then a series or situations,
that led to life,
and then a series of lives,
that led to history
and now it's too late.
Sorry.
That's just the way
it is.