You filter time.
Time filters you.
I catch the words.

The empty bowl
of a fakir betrays the fabric
of life, without seeking.

Mid winter I will ask-
the moon not to freeze.
Some sounds you will not hear.

Tearing the fog, I
wanted to teach you the language
of pain, becoming cold.

Like meteor of
a melting star, you were moving
away faster than light.

You filter time.
Time filters you.
I catch the words.

The empty bowl
of a fakir betrays the fabric
of life, without seeking.

Mid winter I will ask-
the moon not to freeze.
Some sounds you will not hear.

Tearing the fog, I
wanted to teach you the language
of pain, becoming cold.

Like meteor of
a melting star, you were moving
away faster than light.

I had asked you to leave
some stings for me. It helps
to bleed onpapers.

Some artifacts like my ring
is in your box to remember
me after crucifixion.

I didn't take my last
super. I will kiss your hand
before I drink hemlock.

Time has no time.
I cannot find myself in skyless
story of many stops.

A bohemian wants
to become Buddha without
sitting under the Bo tree.

You were touched
untouching me, when I
adored the water of deep.

I get you- earnestly.
In my short poems,
in binge reading, of your eyes.
The tears of hills will not go waste.

Lamb by lamb, you
search the pink contusions
becoming nebulous images.

The fear of black waters
will always chase you under
moonlight.

And the night releases
my pain. Iris and muse become
one. Devastated stings
go back home.

You will not commit,
will not offer the grief of veil,
which would not hide the face.

I would be riding
your stumps― to
byzantine castle
of ardor.

It was not
my thesis― to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.

In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.

The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.

What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.

You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights―
go out.

I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds―

at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.

It would not be a day of mourning.

The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.

The menus are same, only
the taste was different.

Just wanted to be
myself today, ripped after
the apocalypse―

of stainless bodies.
You pull down the era of
earthen lamps from ruins.

Give me a wrapped
guilt. I am a boat in water
without wooden oars.

Black eyes stitched
to dolls. They were going to
wed the white gods.

A knife's cult invokes
the barren cave. You had planted
the severed heads.

In absence of words,
the silence rules. Dying
color of moon conceives
a sun.

There was a subtle
hint of constancy. You will
say something unsaying
to retrieve the blame.

In word war, nobody
wins. A blue stain was
spreading for reconciliation.
There will be no more hunting.

Like a small lake
enters in your eyes. You
start swimming along
the swans.

Stunned butterflies
lie under the paper weights.
There was no argument
between the hunter and hunted.

Reigniting blood moon,
I have come to
seek my abdication.

After a long haul of
dark clouds, I come face to
face with my failures.

My experiments with faith
and disbeliefs did not help
to understand the mysterious self.

Now the significant hurts have
become my strength, accepting
the challenge of changed winds.

I meet you O god―
midway, one day to
settle the scores.

Frightened of ending―
what, that did not start.
I try to touch― the timeless zero.
There were no numbers.

I give you what I did,
not have. The future of gilded doors
and agonized window's past.
You offer an eternal smile.

Will I carry the red clouds
beyond your tears and
my trampled wreaths?
We talk ceaselessly ear to ear.

Your silent invite always
baffles me. This world has
always used me as stairs. Why
were you still standing on the ground?

The twinkle works. I shut
my eyes to grab you.

Purpura, I will breath in you,
the purple-pink flowers of
foxflove, when you collapse.

Clairvoyance. I can see
through you beyond the fog,
in the darkest night.

This was the primitive pain.
My pampering has given
you a taste of surrender.

Like an unborn poem
you swim on my tongue
to find the shores.

I want to lower the―
guard and dance with the roving death.

Ah, the passion flower.
You will not mind, if I
embrace your beautiful sunset.

The dusk panics.
Molten ash stings, bearing
you down. Your enemy had penetrated
very deep.

Your pride shrinks.
Infinite pains from moonlit streets
climb up the palm trees
to count the dead.

You can not arbitrate in disputes
of wind and flags.

The night rolls down on the
battered past. Your face becomes
a broken clock.

Color-blind, you will never―
know the green recital
of the spokesman.

Night was young.
Shameless moon
wanted to talk to me.

Will do what―
I was not supposed to do,
holding back the tears.

We had killed
ourselves with indelible scars
for a puppet show.


Reddish-yellow
rind of ****** orange in
the eyes of severed head.

How I loved you
green, in hot summer
noon, when you

Were not mine.
Sky scented with nostalgia
talks to gypsy moon.

Each star becomes
a wound. The winged thoughts
fly like monarchs.

The art of faking
will not come to me.

Your breadth
twists the moon, making
a dent on the face
of lookalike.

Becoming a stranger,
celebrating love― without
my arms of flames.

An old story repeats.
Beautiful but trembling,
the farewell handshake.

Neither comes
nor goes, the vase life
of withering roses.

The sculpture
was not yet ready.
The angel recapitulates.

The chilling offer
of thumbs in the voyage
of monk's insanity.

Sun stops for while
to steal the time, separating
poem from poem.

You may like to
destroy the hemorrhaging
moon before dawn.

I don’t belong to me,
to you, to her, to him.
Who are you, I ask myself
again falling in love for a tender shoot,
uncoiling under the debris of unfaithful corners?

I was watching a small birdie
hopping against a mirror, cracking the beak
to **** a rival.

She was pulling at my arm
white death in red scarf.

This is for you my fellow-traveller,
a beautiful sector of my hidden garden,
where I have permitted you to come for a walk.
Hand in hand we will watch the peerless evening –
sitting on the wings of gulls.
Will you like to break a promise
before I implode on the moon?

You light the earthen lamp daily under a tree,
to possess me, trap me, digest me. Voicelessly
I melt into smoke, fly away in small huffs.

It was unreal. Will
not matter. I am still in mode to
accept the lies of distant twilight.

O honey, why the
comb was built in my poems to
sweeten the words hired from pain.

I will not know it for
a while. A face was planted on
your lips. You sing like a nightingale.

Like the light
trapped in a diamond.
I watch your face.

You know, that
you will never know yourself.
There was no elegy
before the cessation.

One day this will pass. You
will not lie against you,
naked as a moon.

A pride sins
the rose for tearing off the
bee's wings. I smell
a self-conceit.

You were drawing on your
fingernails, a portrait
of a dying river.

I wanted to live
before my cold-blooded carnage.

Don't print on the body
a pattern, grayesh red.
Damask rose?
The cilia will propel you
into the tunnel.

Clowns have assembled
on the street, to write
the history of fall.
Acts of kindness are being
translated into profanities.

You are hurt by the
petals, thrown at you.
Kingmaker, why you have become
a joker?

Red lilies?
Do you like the buttercups?
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet.
I am not sure, why you were walking
on nails.

That mad truth.
The unborn was knifed
long back. Now you throw―
the net in the crowd.

I had found you
after the centuries of conflict―
in small eyes, looking
for the stolen myths.

I want to hold your
face one day and bury it
in my tears. It should not have
happened in the jungle
of jinxed plays.

The unmarked tree. I
had picked up the fallen fruit
to taste you. Would you
find me in dark?

Like a dwarf planet,
you follow me in distant
sky, so near― so far.

I love you like poet
Pablo Neruda. My eyes in―
your dreams, wide open.

When the tears would wait
to bloom like hidden flowers―
under the steady rocks.

Not me, not you, were
aware of the rising moon,
between snow and sleet.

Impatient, was green
snake in grass, I watch the sun
ready to give a chance.

In dark winter I
will dig out the sad poem from
your burning eyes.

Not soliciting
from any god I will build
my own sky, my script.

What a folly. You want
to live in the womb again. There was
one soul and two bodies.

Words tend to die in the large
grind. Only dried tears were left on the
rocks. A name was erased slowly.

O god out of the ash comes
out the sacred necklace. All night
I was remembering a name of fabric.

It was the first elegy,
when the earth was dying slowly.
I thought I should be living.

The rocks want to bleed.
My mind becomes still in my loneliness.
You wanted a happy marriage with the death.

At this moment give me
a kiss of viper. I choose my absolute
to watch without seeing.

It was the first elegy,
when the earth was dying slowly.
I thought I should be living.

The rocks want to bleed.
My mind becomes still in my loneliness.
You wanted a happy marriage with the death.

At this moment give me
a kiss of viper. I choose my absolute
to watch without seeing.

When you swap
your emotions with red moon,
my poem bleeds.

A huge graffiti becomes
visible, when dark clouds
gather for the gossip.

In absenteeism,
you were the sharpest pain
of my pen.

A purple smoke was
rising again, without-
a flame. One beat skips
and hundred blames come.

You don't speak
your mind. Pure faults go
unnoticed. The conversation
drops between two blades
of grass. Magenta
moon drips.

The gender voice makes you
dumb. One more chapter is beheaded.
My pain comes silently to me.

What do we differ? A beautiful
finish of an era is over. When you faint,
someone chops away your thumb.

Between the cause and
violent hurts, you want justice for
all the souls who left peacefully.

The bio sheet remains
incomplete.
I am leaving the papers blank.

Singed, as the white coal:
the ash, smudged on eye brows.
I have come to rekindle
the dying flames.

The anger was mine,
scolding the scarf in winter storm,
what was the need to spread the
white sheet?

Like you will not write, an―
apology for kissing a cobra tongue.
It was ok to become a fool?

Where a tear sits on
the edge to fall in silence
for not undoing the hawthorn?

Walk with me, till moon rises
on the griefs of the dark,
and the tongue tastes the pain of centuries.

On the erected dome
when the golden leaves start a flame
which throws up an image of a prophet.

My nightingale was giving a call
of a very sad tune, on the death of peacocks -
but for the poisoned feed, they were dancing.

A green pride has no ambition now,
roses were wilting.
Fever was rising in the roots.

Do not give it to me, my award.
Could I have shut up like a fame
when my house was being ransacked?

Like a blood sport
you play with me.
My thumb bleeds.

Cannot be salvaged.
You are put on display
like lamb meat..

Jealousy will ultimately win.
Uncoupling has started.

The betrayal hides
under the lids.Side by side
are laid the golden chips.

Now you liberate the unbeliever.
One day the avalanche will bury the rings.

Let's not go back to the
sordid details of relative truths.
I only wanted to to prove that
I was wrong.

Knees broken, I will walk.

Night melts into tears
day sums up the pain.
A fear stalks the flute,
and darkness falls on the drapes.
I was a lake
and I was the sun.

I held you on to my breast.
Give me your fangs
and give me your venom.
I was blue and I am the death.

Centuries of wounds
and million of scars.
Silence of sky
and lull in the clouds.
I am the fire
and I am the gale.

Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name.

Anonymously, you want to
postpone the commitment
to accept the ******
of yourself,
the griever.

The towering belief―
that there were skeletons
on the grains, as the words
become verses.

A snowy ******
will take a knife, to bring
down the stars
when you sing centuries
of love.

You always tried
to conceal the imperfect
hunting under moon.

One must recite
the ghost mantras to
be bohemian.

They will pound
the chests with whole kin
to pacify the pir.

Nothing left to do
anything today.
Snow falling incessantly.

Did not believe ever
in shortcuts.
Still moving on legs.

Soundlessly I
meet my strange god
under a sickle moon.

Faraway my old
faith listens―
to the footsteps of dawn.

Are you ok? When
the moon rises on sea, I become
worried about the blue butterflies.

The Morning Glory always
inspires me, in her swaying to
welcome the beautiful dawn.

And when your sleep
goes, you start reciting shlokas
with smoke and sparks.

Are you ok? When
the moon rises on sea, I become
worried about the blue butterflies.

The Morning Glory always
inspires me, in her swaying to
welcome the beautiful dawn.

And when your sleep
goes, you start reciting shlokas
with smoke and sparks.

The brown dust―
floats, while reading
poetry.

It was my first―
love with the dancing words
in the jungle of departures.

The genocide of―
reliefs. I ***** a shrine
for the slaughter of unknown.

Innocently, I utter―
your name in dark, that
lights up the aubade.

Strange things happen.
I stand where the roads don't cross
parting the emptiness.

The deadpan. Another city falls.

I may be saying
goodbye under the stars dust.
At distance moon burned.

I was not familiar
with the shadow of eyes, that
moves faster then vision.

The morning sun
uncovers the pain of sky. How
far was the lotus in lake?

Leaving a trail for
the game of **** in watery eyes
for sane surrender.

*

That was a fake turn,
when you slipped from the edge
of enduring pain.

*

Like first raindrops,
I was going to wet your brows
to write my hurt poem.

I always differed
for the sake of semblance.
Feathers did not agree.
You flew away for your sky.

Impatience had killed the defeat
my elixir, the baby sea in my eyes.
Genocide of the figs, unlearning
the sweetness of life.

Yet a white python was hungry.
A heart rendering feat to dig-out
a home after the earthquake.
Alligators were dying in midstream.

I was running after the desert.
Why bustards were disappearing?
Trees were hung upside down.
There was no suicidal note.

I always differed
for the sake of semblance.
Feathers did not agree.
You flew away for your sky.

Impatience had killed the defeat
my elixir, the baby sea in my eyes.
Genocide of the figs, unlearning
the sweetness of life.

Yet a white python was hungry.
A heart rendering feat to dig-out
a home after the earthquake.
Alligators were dying in midstream.

I was running after the desert.
Why bustards were disappearing?
Trees were hung upside down.
There was no suicidal note.

Don't give me aches,
by becoming tall.
I will not change my style.

Not scared. There
was a pause, between
the screams.

There you were
playing with the other truth,
which was not mine.

I was not alone,
buried in your hums.
Pain was my goddess!

The lamb was dead
taking off her coat. I wear
the skin of dandelions
to walk on wet land.

Stepping on small spots
of shallow river, I was trying to reach
your bank.I takemy place in pain.

A bonafide crime of looking
at the moon to forget the hunger
of earth in a disastrous fall.

Who was criminal in
court of divinity, when the most
evolved creaturereverts to worm.

Noiselessly you come
in my poems to light the lamp
I ask myself, who were you?

I remember you intensely,
when you move away from gale
I floor my heart to taste the blood.

Do you think tears can
heal the wounds? Does a fall has
a moral to rise again?

There were some ashes
in your eyes, when
you kissed a flame with
containment.

A golden phoenix
swoops down to ****** away
your signature.

Henceforth the sky will
wear the skullcap of moon,
before touching the blue lake
of silent eyes.

Why do we fight
for our insignias? The saber
dance must continue in
the morning of our doom.

The phantoms come again.
Why you were in dilemma-
to surrender or not?

After all you were my gems.

Pardon my Alter Ego.
My poems fall like snow from the
eyes like jewels of thoughts and tears.

The words deem meaning
of about turn. Each truth cries. I will
go away with light in lonely sky.

A nameless pain takes
revenge. Why do we start the beginning
of living burial in the dark lake?

Sitting on black stones,
to feel the global angst,
and doing nothing.

Good or bad, time
takes revenge. You will
always blame self.

Like grapevine,
everyone wants to climb the
moon in pitch dark.

To catch himself
he jumped into fishpond
becoming opaque
between silk and lethal crotch.
Milk of silence started flowing
from earth’s breast.

His name was a flower
who was a blind witness
of the love-
for a moon
which plunged into a lake without a bottom.

Pain is spilled since then
on the charred lips.
Marigold–
waits for the sun
to rise only once.

All the empty hands
carry one eye
of the seeds,
to sprout in jungle of smiles.