Retrieve me, by my
voice, to stay at the pause
between wounded words.

Unopened scar
beams from the moon to heal
the breached faith.

You know, lips always
remember the kiss of sun
in raging snow.

Watching in shifting
stance of futurism, I will
be choosing frozen-
pains of the past.

Endlessly I begin
again, the pursuit to meet
the end at moonrise.

I look up at the moon,
and you look back at the road.
And I will ask, what
was the black truth?

You always think of
the windows, when the doors
were shut. To escape from
the colossal mistakes?

Truth, one day
will melt in your eyes.
I will pick up the pen.

What I feel, was
incredible to shake off.
And the moon cries.

Why do I tie the
knot with nature? Your
eyes and cascading voice?

My wait will never
be over after the brief
encounter with the rising
mounds.

There it goes, my self-
made tryst with burning ghats,
to search a lost face.

The twilight pain
climbs again in my verses.
I cannot weave
a beautiful sunset.

For whom the
echoes travel very long
in dark woods?

Ah, it was not a diamond
ring. In your palm was sitting
a god, watching you disintegrate.

Your hands, tell the
agony of lifting darkness, when
the full moon was rising.

The author speaks.
Not the ink, about the nomadic words
which have come to bleed on paper.

Tortured leaves of―
autumn are gathering to celebrate,
this side of the fall.

Like attaining the liberation
of sea urchins, reaching
the table to sip water.

There was no saliva.

After going back in my
frame, I let the dark set in,
to wait for your moon.

No more, or less, you had
plucked my image to wear it. There was
no litany, no contrast.

And a prayer makes
the cherry tree bloom, and
start shedding like my poems.

It can save us, at the
foot of mountain, when rains
come, and we are climbing.

The shadows will meet at
horizon, drowning in water
of moon- to morph into a vault.

The creativity had been at the best.

Feeding the mouth
of fire with tribal love.
My contextual wait-
for the pledge begins.

You come as an
accused, wearing the
veil of moon to explain-
the vanishing act.

The purple nails
scratch the scented skin
to bring out the red,
flowing love.

If you become
beautiful in praise of
moment, I will bring
the burning moth.

The vicious bell rings again.

To break free from
existential spin, I will
start a new journey.

Can you walk a poem,
towards unknown, to kiss the
destiny of dying world?

It is adult postmortem
of brain-dead diction,
Why the god failed?

The beast was dead
in my bones. I can't quit
the house of blood.

The spirit remains
young, like the white lily
of the swaying pond.

Can you come out
of yourself and become my
acclaimed prodigy?

You went tounveil your own
statue, before being shot―
dead, for telling the fiction.

Day was stranger than
night. You can discern
the oblique faces.

Handcuffed, you pick up
the pen, to rewrite the name
of omniabsent divine.

Trivial rise of surface
temperature will melt
the snow-clad *******.

A clove-scented pink―
in the hands of a butcher
does not bring a smile.

How do I remember
you, I ask grammarly
between life and death.

You were not very
keen to know,
what I did not say.

What I saw was a
moonshot, restrained by a dig in.

Ultimately I sniffed that,
nobody wins in love.

The bona fides are at stake.
The mob was not a validity,
stranger than real.

Collectively I will gather
the stones to throw on god.

The road warrior was dead.
There was no path.

It bewilders me, when
I follow you. Why the savaged
retribution starts for a
separate mouth?

I may become little
demanding, sending you a
death watch for tender memories.
Why did we meet for different truths,
to fork out, not pardoned
by anchorage of our spriritual pursuits?

At early dawn, a sad
cuckoo gives a long, lingering call;
desperately evoking the
soft bleeds of beautiful past.

Your profile was very
sharp, aquiline instinct, to
smell a lover.

October is here. Intuition
develops a sixth sense.
You don't want to leave the nest.

Another tear rolled down, on time's cheek.

It was not meant to be
like this. Undaunted,
you open the fire towards the moon.

In your madness-
there was a discipline.
A psychological withdrawal-

from the nesting niche.
Believe me-it was not a fake,
I will not reclaim my gifts.

Lesser known was the
spiritual inadequacy.
The hawk will not come to land.

Death-be not a child.
Breathing is slowing down.
I will wait for the sunset.

I can only offer you small things―
like a coma,
a full stop.
Parenthesis―
or a hyphen.

To lit up the sparks
in visuals.
And no page was left unread
of my life.

Walk and talk
with me― to unsolve
the twisted humps
of times.

Your assets
had failed you.

You stand alone not to return back.

Decoding the love
which will not do us
apart, like death transcending
the history of man and beast.

The perspective
of history was changing. I
didn't want to be happy, with shifting
epicenter of pain of severence.
Let the river flow between the banks.

I was there, where
you did't reach. Becoming stupid
was the choice. My pen will
dig up your mind, when you were
hiding behind the unspoken vows.

Taking revenge was
no career. You will fall from
the heights of rosewindow.

The sculptor was ready,
to anoint a fallen angel.

Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for
numericals, refusing to expand,
walk with father of sorrow
the revolutionary.

He wanted to talk as an equal
in interpretation of truth about death
and God, the new incumbent
of faith.

An aptness to spill the blood on
your face, of some recent slaughter,
as a witness of dying for peace,
as soothing law of nature.

He wears the fabric of inspiration:
the city and streets are empty
weaving the welts of pain,
for nothing.

Priest or thinker,
you wanted a moral engagement.

Moon shined,
You were waiting for a
prophet or saint.

It was pointless,
boat will not arrive. Standing
on beach, your journey ends here.

The sun was too hot. The
umbrella conceals the face
of a motivator. Nobody wants
to touch the fast of dead god.

Irisis shrink. Hole becomes
larger. Now I cannot hate myself.
The blue jewels have become lumps
of wasted stones.

You start diverting
the green death of infallible,
and become real.

Talking of doors
without walls. They shut
and open, but don't lead
you anywhere.
This was no insult to the house of cards.

I will ask the rains
to stop for a while.
Don't you be wet for any hurt,
before knowing who you were.

In quietus, your
thoughts move like serrated knives.
There will be blood, on the paper and a
trace of guilt.

Learning to sink
like a log tied to a huge
stone. Will it matter? Then,
from where the energy comes?

The untold secret
was heavier, than the
vocal denial. Was there a
reticent surrender.

Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white―
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring―
down languidly.

I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.

Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid―
poems, working.

Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.

Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.

Constrained.
The starlings will
not fly today.

There was a hole
in the sky.
The god particles will fall.

Drawing out
the blood of fallen―
angles, on the street.

Can you count
the sins of man?
We still celebrate the hate.

In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.

An invisible ink, of late
marks the error
of autumn. A lone survivor
of leaves of time, would not
break the word.

The donated eyes will not
see the dreams. You can
boil the bones to get the truth.
Somewhere a guilt prospers.

It is what you don't think.

It should not have happened
this way, or that way,
rendering breathing difficult
in the intense smoke of misunderstanding.
The granite wall between the doors!

You ***** through a thicket of words
crossing the centuries of hate.
Sun, no sun settles for the hope
of a slain blankness, to properly
heave, a sigh after the childbirth of truth.

All the dead white bones, jutting out
from the ancestral incompleteness of
forgetfulness of man to accept gracefully
the suffering of neighbourhood. The very
feel of sharing a god.

You are what you are not
I am not, what I am.

My laces would break
whenever I will tying my
shoes. Why, O man why?

Stand in wilderness
of last year and walk in the
honeytrap of new year.

Life has become blue
O moon, why did I let you in
under my skin.

How come you want
to change the world ? First I
ask you to stay in my heart.

Now would you be
adorable? God! you have
been arrested by a man.

We are all liers
No love is made. Racism? Tell
your agony. Money flies.

The faith is negated.
Talking to sun. Lot's of misery.
Savageness. Anxiolytic prevails.

How will you look at
the moon? The muse! Can go
silently for a suicide?

You were not choosing
the right words, being reticent
for a seasoned yes.

The hurts of intimate
symphonies― don't bleed.
Only scars were left in triangles.

The chilled morality
of summer stream, was eating
away the banks of amnesties.

It was a sublime touch
of unseen fingers moving into
the trees and sky of dark spaces.

Days were slipping
away. I cannot put my
memories on flame.

There were explosions
on the crossroads.

I have become disconnected.

Talking of pose, while shooting
in back, several questions
arise of a staged drama―
missing the lethal word,
releasing the venom.

Poetry of politics becomes evident.
You may spurn the actors,
but the pretence overwhelms.

For testing the secret of depth,
you go down in water
unarmed.

You pull a stretcher, now―
unwrapped. The cremains sink
in the sea― of tears,
unsettling the designed pebbles,
the needles. The tapestry starts burning.

In my blood book
what was your
divine constant?

The arithmetic fails.
a black hole― ***** in,
the brilliant stars.

I was collecting
the rare salt, from the
abandoned beach of eyes.

Poetry was the flesh,
bones. Heart stops
beating, when images drop.

We will not speak
in dark, when the moon
was rising in the east.

Not lived to die.
The road will not end.
Every word becomes a milestone.

Blue moon of white night, wants―
to bring down the sky
in a spiritual bliss.

Talking of reincarnation,
I am skinned alive, like
a cadaver, talking ceaselessly.
You are burning sans fire.

In absence of god, you
become a god father
to a beautiful progeny.

Leave aside the lineage.
On the horizion, a flock
of swans was returning
home to spread the watercolors.

The recluse comes out from the oblivion
to greet the inevitable.

The witch-hunt starts
for an unexploded bomb.

A racist slur becomes mute
for posterity.

The words start migrating―
coming out of their skin and colors.

A dead man walks into
a coal pit for exoneration.

Breathless, I become privy
to mass suicides of the flying moths.

You become a child, hiding
behind a tree, watching
a tiger maul a striped ariel.

Can you tell me, where
the tunnel ends. The curve has
flattened. There was no light.

In pillars of wasteland,
why did we reach there?
Death-kissing starts now.

The power of questions
will not mitigate your arrival.
Where will we drown?

I want to sell my
thoughts, to feed my heart. Do not
come near the volcano.Lava is still hot.

The king was slaughtered
amids hawthorns. No one loves him after
death. I quote Kafka. Love comes back.

The fallibility is the truth.
Bones break, but the body
still runs like a jaguar.

It was a sane apology,
for not forgetting you.
Concealing your tears,
you come to land
in my poems.

You are crazy-
trying to teach bloodless affinity
with milkweed butterflies.

I think of not anyone else,
when I am thoughtless.
You creep into my veins like
cobra love.

The scream remains trapped
between sharp teeth.
I eject the mercy of venom.

And I step down as
trooper of Magenta.

You throw me the rope to cross the river.

Come November-
I will wear the fall
of varied colors.
Crunching on withered leaves
of your memories.

There was no birthday.
When the world sleeps-
I write a poem, looking
at the rubble of life.

Opinionated, the time
**** like a beast-
brazenly.

It was a stunning defeat
of the dawn, of the nonviolent
sprouts under the scorching sun
of the gaze.

Trying to assuage the
realization. I am no more me.

You floundered.
No god poems.

You don't want to destroy the world.

Doing the things.
Lifting my words from―
the falls.

The implicit enemy
was in between―
the truths.

Nothing belongs to you.
Hence you don't lose the game.

To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.

I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.

I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.

Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.

Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.

The model of man
surges ahead, and the observers
become observed. A rapid downfall.

Of humanity? Hundreds
upon hundreds. Was it not a crime
to burn the tomb of the unknown?

The barrenness of the
compound of a temple fakes a departure
of god of nonsense to divert religion?

I would not understand
your fabric, when you come
wearing only smile.

The politics of life was beyond
my poetry. I only have the words
as my wealth. No other assets.

I wanted more space
between the black holes. My earth
needs a rebirth. I am very lonely.

Poison poems. You always
sparred with a family of weighting
heights, which could not touch the sky.

A series of serial killers,
were ready to begin the assault
on the tossing daffodils, deaf, dumb and blind.

From uncultured to
subcultured, I was made to―
feel responsible.

My coffers remained
empty. The nightmares had
squirreled away my peace.

And I was always
steeling for a reply. Embracing
the dark woods for support.

Everyday you changed
the mask to become innocent,
separating the sparks from the ash.

Paralysed like sea―
anemone without water. The
sea had receded in haste.

Amygdala gives you
space. Rage implodes.
Hottest day gives a blast.

Burn, burn, O leaky
night. You **** the moon
with dust. Language
slips.

How will you invite
rains, without nightingale,
who had left for a
quantum revenge?

Visuals haunt. Ash
will fly. An old touch comes
back. Everything looks blue.

I start collecting old coins.

The lake was calling.
I will go untelling every one
conch shell on the beach.

Morning star moves
away from the stranger, who
brought the silent pain.

A stigma, an ache and
tears, embrace moon sitting,
on weeping Ashoka.

The unthinkable,
has happened.
I am still alive.

After the harvest
moon, there were―
many aspirants,

to reach the Mars,
when a lynx left the
pug marks on their chests.

First snow went
deep in asylum.
All gates were locked.

Bliss of blue
and white, balancing
the dark.

This was my curse,
and this was my fate―
mixing the colors.

Do not go farther,
in sea, the fishes
have swallowed the sun.

The park-teachers
and path finders were
not aware of foot-faults.

The word stoppers
were abound. I have yet
to find an ear, drunk as water lily.

I feel the deja vu.
The mysterious cascades
give the amnesty to thorns

Were you ready to ambush the
bete-noire? We don’t know how to
celebrate the colossus Himalaya .

The god doesn't want
to inhale the ether and **** the
bushmaster. Venom turns milk.

Your jasmines smile, when
you handover a bunch to me.
It makes you win my lips.

I do not know how
you turn roses pink, when
I hold your hand under the moon.

In an esoteric way, love
will make the words disappear.
The cage was always empty.

I open the book
too ******
to read my name.

Like a feather,
you roll in
sleep, painless.

The milky moon
was still. Shadows
were trembling.

Mushrooms in
mist, wake up
to stand in circle.

Everything was in place,
and I started to find―
the kingpin, door by door.

Wanted to know more about the death,
when you were struck in silence―
of blackness.

Displaying the art of ****. It has
an ancient throw of fangs.
I am ready to catch the blues.

All day the hibiscus has
been bleeding. I will never
disappoint the skin of the pilgrim.

Oh pink eyes. Sometimes
I wonder, why this shade rests
after wedding a celibate.

Was it necessary to see,
what you wanted me to see,
when I was keeping open my wound
to hear the unheard scream?
What was that which was getting in air?
A little disjointed time, asking
peace for the land
to stop the moulding on the medallions?

The divide and hate the hate and divide
the **** the **** the **** of mercy
and this was to be believed, not to believe
in the grim fate of the fall.
Pain was you was me was him
the guilt of chewing polluted words
to accept the uncertain,
the naked lies.

Blood was on shirt blood was on sheet
blood was on paper blood was in eyes.

A wine taster was
ready to begin the birth
of night.

A wrinkle displays
the absurd mediocrity
of the charter.

I will not play
in the hands of unknowable
I have my own map.

I am shedding,
my skin, my color. Only
a truncated god will speak for me.

Let it go, do not touch it.
You had been negating the bare truth.
I was part of you
once at the shore of tragedy.
Life was treacherous
and I was free to laugh.

Come September and I will be chasing
the fireflies again.

How time takes revenge
from the innocent commitments?
You start returning to your roots
and I was still surfeiting
on the secret fidelity.

Where was the need to be tied down
to god? Nobody was honest to forsake
the fear of nameless nemesis.

The myth of rock still haunts.
Water still boils under the clay.
Petals fly in dark alleys
and I cannot find the door.

Deck is empty, today: -
physics of life unfolds.

I know you less now, what
I knew you earlier.
A cloud city after the collision
had become distraught, after taking
a dip in mudslide.

With chainsaw I am cutting
myself. Why not to become a fossil
with imprints of the collapse―
of our culture and education, in
coal pits of ancient times?

The body has hardened, bones
twisted in agony, I grab the window,
to pull in the sun. Only
the eyes will shine in dark.