even the benevolent breeze,
spares the scattered ashes,
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls,

they told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see and smell are dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree,

the birds have nowhere to go now,
the dogs are dying of heat,
and I can't write poems now,
for I was a patient of that asylum

it caressed my sanity every evening
my poems have nowhere to go,
they don't hide in the branches now,
they hide within me,
and I hide inside them.

I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.

I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement

I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.

And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.

How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.

To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,

to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.

to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
ever.

Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.

this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.

The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.

We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed,
In winter,when it rains saffron
instead of snow.

It begins with
a melodious blur
as a taste of forgetfulness slithers
over my humble skin.

A yearning evolves slowly,
to disappear away
from this meaningless pursuit of flesh,
we are trapped by our existence
and nothing else.

I trespass within myself,
in search of a purpose,
in the hidden sanctums of my delusion,
where blues waves greet my feet,
and the sky made of ice
howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.

It never rains,
But I always forget to stride aimlessly,
these hungry eyes are served
with sumptuous visions,
and till my hands bleed
this hallucination copulates
with my reality.
I finally learn to float
within myself.

I pen all of it down,
in the night
and call them as Art
in the morning.

it comes with slithering steps,
a quiet wave thirsty for shores,

the collapse of senses,
the reckoning of misery,

when dreams melt and flow,
reality devours with small venomous fangs,
the air stinks of a beautiful past,

shattering of glasses,
is all you hear,

a sapphire burning red,
is all you see,

regretting your choices
and your existence,
is all you want,

but a heartbreak is not that cruel,
it is a mercy,
an indemnity,
from what lies ahead.

a sky full of loneliness.

black coffee on the table,
clean cold steel-chiselled Glock

loaded and placed in the bed-drawer.
The sharp wire that smells of the skins

and flesh it has strangulated. A black pair
of gumboots, a black overcoat, a black void

of past. A distant daughter who loves strawberries,
cats with abhorrence for your existence.

Cadillac, a pair to tan gloves, a love for silence,
love for the sight of eyes turning red, pleading

A packet of cigarettes, a bottle of Miller’s
An emptiness that spreads, a death that patiently lives.

the tides comes in mighty,
wrecking ships and plundering beaches,
it's a blue chaos on white moonlight
and in a few hours
when the sun yawns out of sleep,
the sky shall bleed yellow,
with tides patted to sleep
like a dog that had too much love,

the disarray of the universe
dissolves and resurfaces everyday
like our hearts,
like our lives,
like everything.

In an envelope of void,
I have come to my temple of verses,
across the lands misted of thoughts
to the mountains that rains pleasant dreams

the rivers drown your past
in a melodious blur of coldness,
the skies smell like a unforgetten
future in hues of parallel mirrors

and this is my chanting
my shangri la,in the temple of verses,
a dream within a dream,sleeping unapologetically,
would you stop staring and join?

All bodies await,
the burning over pyre,
the cycle will go on,
till there is desire,

Amidst the flame and fire,
lives turn to ashes,
the material body is an illusion,
soul is freed in flashes,

The path of life,
ends here,
and new paths unravel,
it is a mystery indeed,
for which the soul travels.

If the gods do will,
I shall create my own universe
my own earth for everyone

all your anguish and pains,
the cries and the vain,
shall be the red hot core,
that would burn from within,
untouched and unseen
forever for everyone

all the smiles and dreams of everyone
shall be the skies and stars
bright as ever be,
for we all shall fly once
to hold them close,
to embrace them in nights alone
no matter how far,

the memories and voices
of all our beautiful times
shall be the trees and the oceans
whose smells shall come to us,
when the breeze blows,
taking us to a time, we always wanted

and we shall live and die
within ourselves,with memories
with everyone and their lives
like we used to do,
and become memories or oceans,
stars or smiles
and be alive even after death
on this planet.

I pursue the night,
while the snow quaffs the coldness
although treaded with footsteps,
they are still insanely bright,

our shadows retired early that day,
like a jotted desolated house,
my body aches and cracks into a million voices
when the past steps foot, slowly within myself,

In a quilt near the fireplace,
I retraced back to the autumn,
brewing like a golden ale,
somewhere within me,

I still remember that magnanimous deer,
who eyes poked my soul for an answer,
sometimes it haunts my dreams,
staring in nights like this,
through the window.

the strings and threads,
that binded my sanity
and this earth,
is breaking now,

a well lived life,
question's it's existence,
it's a manual override,
in a place where wires refuse to mate,
it all ends like this,
I am sure it would.
I pray it should,
while I pursue the night.

Lo Behold for the time has come,
to raise the glasses
for the worthy unsung

it is the day they embraced death
as a good old friend, with respect

the rains will dance
and lightning will cry

they did not went alone
in the darkest night

someday sometime one has to take a leap
with eyes open and heart asleep

let us celebrate the honorable dead
with the brightest faces, tears unshed

Lo behold the time has come
to raise glasses
for the worthy unsung

Like leaves on sun burnt trees
our ambitions slowly recede,
as the winds of change blow,
are you really ready to let them go?

or would you catch them
as they fall and scatter,
dead may always remain dead
but would it ever matter?

would you not wait for a whole season
for them to grow again?
or just sit infront of the idiot box
silently biting away your pain

Bridges

I burned the bridges
to the past
and bathed in it's ashes
to never be afraid
of it

but the smell never goes,
the road is still there
and i still believe it's ghost
will haunt me,
for times to come
and there is nothing we can do,
nothing at all.

there is something
about those wooden chairs
at the Jameson's Bar.

the way they consume the
yellow brights, I believe
they could have consumed the
sultry nights,the spilled whisky,
the cheap tips and the unspoken
stories.

it's like a polished reflective
demon,that asks me to sit on it
and begin the satanic act of
dissolution of liver.

the way it does so,
I might have lost a hundred stories
to it in the most painful nights
I saw and swallowed within, with only ice.

but I never regretted.
nor shall ever be,
for they have read my stories,
when no one ever could.

it is upto us
to choose,

whether these times
are going to be long
forgotten years,
rotten with bigotry,
stinking of nothingness

or as a testimony
for the times when we
burned our minds and souls
as embers on a cursed night
to never look for the sky ever
in search of a false hope.

Let us wake up someday
in the shadow of the dreams
where your lips are the only light
and I am inured to blindness.

Guide me to them
but not by touch
for this heart
shall memorize the curves
and you will be lost forever.

A smell shall suffice,
transverse me through your body slowly.
Till it is the light only that I can smell.
The light only, I can feel.

Let me be the mirage
in the deserts of your loneliness.
You will be the river that flows within me.
We will forget the thirst at least.

Till these dreams are sublimated
and the shadows vanish,
Come, walk on the dark side
of these fragile dreams
where the music fades
as the dark green leaves
welcome our toes.

I shall teach you someday
to seek darkness in the fire
and we shall make a home out of it.
I promise.

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to **** him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.

If I could rhyme
whenever I want
Wouldn't I be singing?

a hymn , an ode
a sonnet , a quote
What would I be bringing?

a laugh , a sight
a beautiful night,
Will you be there swinging?

a kiss , a touch
that wouldn't be much
my love,what shall we be drinking?

Let me douse a fire
that dissolves in water
by mixing it with my blood
in small sips of uncontrollable desire.

The insides shall burn, I know,
I have been there
as the brain blazes up slowly
in the incipient flames inducing
a stupor of warming numbness.

Is this how you erase memories?
Is this is how you conjure them?

The valiant bout
of drunken madness ends
as now the red-blooded eyes
seek the cold white embrace
of A Moon, hidden in clouds.

Chalices have grown cold.
Snow fondles the dark greenery outside
in a cold choking blanket of doom
that leaves behind a lullaby of silence.

The jeweled decanter
whispers to me
at the dead of the night,
as the fire, it holds
now craves for the decaying fire
within me.

I am not myself now,
I am a shadow used to the
****** actions of a decaying body.
I am submissive and weak tonight
to this body that dances in the fire,

Incomplete scribbles still remain desolated
praying for a bloom
in the wake of the terrible hangover.
to be remembered somehow.
Someday.

Is this how you become a poet?
Is this how you forget poetry?

a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time,

memory is a sweet drizzle,
originating from the clouds of conscience,

an atmosphere made of nostalgia,
and we are the floating planet.

the galaxies are unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life

but I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open,

so was it a deja vu?
or my hands just slipped of this typewriter.

I feel the weight of summer
arching my back
with droplets of its love.

My t-shirts hate summer,
It makes them nauseous.

The night burns in dark,
the stars left us long ago.

It is they who hid the warm winds
in unseen alleys of the sky.

I wait for an answer that never
comes.
I wait for a voice never heard.

The night silently leaves.

in the dark dusted corners,
and the fading faraway skylines,

in the books never opened,
and some never finished,

in the winds that annihilates the sense of time,
and the dogs that sometimes barks out for fun,

in the celestial beauties cursed to hide,
and the boredom in counting wings of the useless fans,

I have lied,searched and crawled
for words to define this crisis of emptiness,

I sense words and meanings lurking around
in places and hotels I left in dismay

in the ash-trays and coaster less tables,
some of the burned memories with words of comfort still lie,

though they are cold and full of despair,
I shall cast the spring through them

for your all eves to see
and your heart to drink,tonight.

insanely bright,
quaffed of colors,
smelling like rotten vanilla on ice,

a constructed barren land
with no lush green to incite eyes,
no blue sea rhyming flows to please ears,
and smell of sudden suicide of air

you thought a damp lonely dark pit,
can only torment you but the light
is the answer to everything?

Think Again.

caress the playful waves,
breathe the snowflakes of this breeze,
stroll the unseen paths carelessly,
in the dreams within your dream,

kiss the dying horizon,
feel the sand below your feet,
embrace the horses that once rode
the beaches,
just like your old memories

besmirch the nightmares slowly,
wake up alone in these hallowed nights,
comfort all what is left within yourself,
feel this earth again without the lights

when it all comes back to you,
and I know it will,
write something beautiful about it,
let those waiting pages finally fill.

lightness descends
in the head,

as brief visions of yours,
reincarnate within myself

you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion,

an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations

and I read you very slowly,
like one of my own written creations,

for I have been a starving reader
all my life,

and you were finally
an end to my starvation.

Hymn those verses
as the eyes dive into this
seminal darkness,
the ones I always hear
and forget at the end of the dreams.

Build a Crown of wood,
and lit it up for those
eager to taste it.

Split this fire
into two parallel mirrors:
Power and Desire.
let me see the anatomy of it
and the invisible bones.

For they will keep burning each other
till they forget their purpose,
as the mind and the soul often forget
when awaken by the rain of blood.

an amicable smell
from the dried grasses
after the evening drizzle
and the turmeric laden idols,
that fuses into memories,
like reopening dust laden book,
in the house that greets waves
with eyes closed and an absence
of discord

even souls here burn
and wash away like a dried
incense stick on voyage
to nowhere and everywhere

the cows ring bells
in harmony and unison
there are no beds
but the dogs and humans
sleep alike
in comforts of a ground
that caresses unequivocally
in life and eternal death.

the smell has gone now
now concrete, glasses and woods
stink of success and fervor,
something terrible happened
really terrible.

This monotony,
of getting up

even the weather is too cold
and murderous grey

sunshine doesn't greets me
birds don't chirp

just white sheets everywhere,
a lifeless bliss

why couldn't we sleep through the winter?
does it lament over our lives?

an abandoned house,
with chronicles of deaths painted on the walls,
in the shadows of it's doom,the reaper lurks,
watches over with eyes of death,
waiting for the omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
and he shall devour the soul

everything the reaper touches,
transcends from space and time,
to spaces between space,
he has never loved a flower,
never held a newborn,
never cried,never laughed

and now he is slowly dying
of all the lives he has taken
the reaper is dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether it is painful
or wonderful
but it's sad.
it should be.

Verses

Why go in verses
maintain a rhythm
when the words spill
all over the canvas
fighting for spaces
to conjure meanings
and sometimes feelings
before they finally cease to exist
and get trapped forever,
in pages of the books
left in the empty corners of libraries
to be read or just seen.

Why seek the rhythm
when the world outside
is full of chaos
nothing but Chaos

long ago,
I used to devour the darkness,
the prisoned tiny lights,
behind those glass walls,
were never tempting for me,
I was a cold wall of fickle illusions
and darkened ambitions,

a caricature of bright blurred dreams,
intervened and poisoned my memories,
everything once dissolved,
just to resurface and mold again,
in an array of unknown light,

but I knew it was you,
for you came,
and you were,
brighter than a thousand suns

Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.

Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust

The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.

I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.

Come here,
sit next to me,
don't leave me tonight.

watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise rich sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds,
through mellow howlings.

this cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow,
let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.

don't leave me tonight,
come here,
sit next to me.

I sometimes wonder,
the brave and infallible
who **** each other and die
for their countries,

on reaching the gates
of either heaven or hell
what would they say
to each other?

would they still have
the hate or rage
that pushed them to an extent
of killing each other

or would they share a common grief
over what mutual hate did to their lives
and brought their bodies feets below
the ground, rotting and dying slowly,
alone

What scares a writer?
I have always wondered

some say it’s the rejection,
some say it’s the creative exhaustiveness,
and some blame the isolation

but for me it is the blank screen
that mocks me for emptiness,
laughs on my in competencies,

In it I see my rejections,
my creative exhaustiveness
and the isolation.

for it contains nothing
and holds everything.

I see loads of people
crammed in places where one can’t breathe
full of music promised to drive away your demons
just to wash away the dirt of the week that slipped
and they eventually try
to live one night
just to survive the days coming
We are all in this whirlpool
of never ending desire
to lose ourselves
in people we don’t know
things we don’t care of
Ask me, How your nights are?
I would say restless
Why?
busy searching myself inside
and scared , if successful.

but when the night sets in,
and you wash the disgust off your face,
the eyes in mirror are just not looking to admire
that pretty face,they ask for dreams once promised
this job is going to save you from everyone
but who is going to save you from yourself?

entwined scents
and a divine grace
a sombre gaze across the room
that sent all hearts to race

days passed and so did nights,
nothing was so vehement ever
than those beautiful eyes.

I have been a dreamer
since that day then,
to conjure an eternity in a moment
maybe it was her only sin.

Days worsen
as men leap onto me
bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up on in their
afterlives.

We have laid to rest
our past
like an afterlife

wrapped with everything
we could get our hands on,

the childhood,
the curiosity,
and the indifference towards
failure

all lying in a single place
left to suffocate alone.

I wonder will they die before us
or after?

green feeble breathing leaves,
under a blanket of light and thunder
with every passing tremor
from the abode of divinities,
they bathe unapologetically,

a melody cracks the humongous earth
into the notes of a lost symphony,
the rain is just a clairvoyant dancer,
foreseeing the smiles of all equals,

the petrichor transverses
the past,present and the future
in the spaces between space,

even my cold rusted heart,
breathes like a cancer dying patient,
for the last smoke in this petrichor,

and I am a child again, brisking through mud,
searching something that I do not even remember,
maybe I will find it in sometime,
in a place,where childhood went

My myopic eyes
in the whitewashed veins
dissolved a Solar Eclipse once,
sprinkled slowly in the transparent ponds
of vision,
through a negative film of ours.

Call it now, The fate’s cruel jape.
A sky long-awaited
and devoid of sunlight
is forgotten forever.

I do remember though, the universe we created
in silence, while we lent our voices
to an air that couldn’t speak.

The negative is now a mere vicissitude of colors,
for a time that went lost in translation.

In muddy splashes and
closed shops with smells of lament,

the coconut trees with ghastly shadows
and the shores eager with lust,

in children devouring air and absence
of laughter,
separated lovers ******* someone else
without a guilt,

I slept through timelines
of remorse,guilt,happiness and
nothingness watching them,
remembering them,
understanding them,

to conjure an image
worth hallucination,
worth a wonder,
worth a moment,

today is the day,
I lessen my burden,
to you.

Some day that sky will crash down
with all it's wrath upon us
and nothing would ever matter.
everything would be dust and bones

We will then realize
that death should not be feared
but be chased upon
with the perfect laughter

Dreams are ravenous
for this life of ours

they can't see it thrown away
or being wasted

they will either devour the monotony from our life
or succumb one day

It's up to us to decide
whether we lie down to succumb
to this chaos

or join them
every day.