if indeed
my heart
knows every
word to
this song

why does
my voice
argue that
it should
never be
sung?

It was a night...
That bore so little words
yet was worth so many.

A night when the eyes
spoke more than the mouth.

Fueled by a feeling
that spilled beyond
the consciousness of mind.

A rapid drumming
that deafened the ears -
the undoing of a hopeful heart.

.

Sat there
and stroked her hand
while she slept.

And as I traced each wrinkle,
upon every knuckle,
each told me stories.

Stories of my growing up,
that I knew,
which I’d long forgotten.

They reminded me
of my childhood mischief,
truancy and nonchalance.
They spoke to me of wilfulness.
They struck me
with shame of the audacity
and the occasional disrespect.

But I’m no longer pursuing
childish fantasies.
And I no longer see
through adolescent eyes.

So as she laid there fast asleep,
I hoped hopelessly and silently,
for her to read my thoughts
and feel my love…

While I stroked her hand
and wept.

.

The rage that surged...

The coal in the furnace that
drove heated words.

The years before had converged
and all it needed was a mere
little pin-*****...

To blow this situation
wide open...
To usher the birth of
a broken fist.

Loosened
from the crevices
of engorged founts…

But futile is the effort,
to pave the way
to our worth through
an unmanned portal.

Unwavering.
We continue to commit
to parchment and ink.

As determined orphans,
we let fall our thoughts;
Not from pursed lips
but forged hearts.

It was the glint that caught my eye.
Split second moment.
A flash that pierced
through all flurry and rage.

I knew where it was.
I knew what it was.

Like a light switch flicked on,
a thought came on instantly.

It called to me as silent,
swift and sharp as it was...

It called for a plunge.

A plunge to release the red.
A plunge to relieve the pressure.
A plunge to end it.

I wanted so much to
but I did not take that leap.
Because where that
would’ve taken me,
there can never be a way back.

Burning stars,
set ablaze
according to teary eyes.

Discordant echoes,
spoken voiceless
by the void between them -
almost incoherent.

They must coalesce…

For there are whispers
of peace in unity,
and oneness…

There is promise
of balance in cohesion.
And subsequent tomorrows.

These notions,
scattered morsels,

they must coalesce…



We…

must coalesce.

.

.
he lays
perfectly still,
with his back,
one with the ground.

his hand,
tracking the cadence
in his chest,

as he
milks poetry
out of the moon.


.

The night was young.
The moon had traversed,
but only a minuscule fraction of the sky.

Between the stars was quiet...
And the breeze gentle.
Waves weren't angry
and they caressed the shore
with unspoken affection.

Ripples in the water took their time
riding the surface -
harnessing, carrying each piece of the moon.
Whispering to each other in a silent pact.
With plans to spread the shards of silver
as far as they could;
before gifting it to the next batch of carriers.

If the moon exploded into a million tiny pieces,
that was what it would look like -
confetti of silver and white
strewn over a large black cloth
that's gently flailing in the wind.

A spectacle of unwavering continuity...
Beauty and grandeur in such
tender unrest...

You can’t crave for daylight
but curse the sun’s heat

You can’t adore the rain
yet cringe at the spray

You can’t love the moon
and disown her raging tides

You can’t expect the night
without living through the day

Chronicle these breaths.
And lay them naked
on paper - for the world
to see and judge,
like you know you should.

Dissect them...
With the sharpness
of your scalpel-like thoughts,
like you always would.

Fall in love with them.
Tag them with unspoken words
all too familiar.
Then cast them unto me...
When you finally know you could.

Start up the engine
Just take the road
And let it take you anywhere
Any place that'll relieve the load

Times like these
Leave the dark behind
Soak up the street and city lights
Be free in body and mind

Twist the throttle full
Ride hard that stallion
Let the moment converge
Into the oncoming lights that beckon

Should this story be told,

tell it with the quickening of breaths,
skipping of heartbeats
and butterflies in stomachs;

And not be bogged down
by the heft of weighted sighs.

.
sore is the wound
that rejects
the salve of time
.