I am power

I watch eyes leave the ground
and walk up to her lips.
My magnetism has them lingering for longer,
hoping for a stronger look thrown at them.
I see double-takes
and furtive smiles,
I see her glide through crowds on clouds for miles.

I am war paint

She has no smile on,
her jaw is tense,
and you better not approach her
without an answer to your question.
I have nothing to do with defence,
I am a shield
but only to brandish her strength,
don't worry,
she won't reach for your jugular
till you do.

I am grace

I am an involuntary parting of the sea,
I see her bring down empires of doubt, and thrones of inadequacy.
She has no smile on,
but you hope to see one anyway.

I seem to have that effect on her.
She seems to never pick her battles without me,
and her wars are somehow always smudged with my name.
She refuses to be tamed,
she says the others don't suit her the same. 

I am constant support.
I am faith.
I am visible signs of the strength within.
I am deterring, I am inviting.
I am living legends played out on her lips, I am quiet histories whispered into no air. I am fire and rescue,
I am hope and destruction.

My name is Red.

Weeks pass by,
and the sun vomits days
onto a calendar and I spill onto blank computer screens.
Two windows live next to me,
kissing the ceiling,
and reaching down to the floor.
They live in perfect harmony
with the skies,
and are shy only of the setting sun.
Every evening,
I look at windows and the planes they carry
and wish I was the window.
To have people and stories
and paths to tread on, arms to fall in,
to have a destination to go to, sighs to breathe in.

I wish I was the window,
framing perfect fleeting moments - an eternal second,
the blink-blink of evening skies
clink-clink of mugs,
orchestrating the perfect symphony,
always in disarray but never of tune.

I wish I was the window,
to be shifting sand dunes of visions,
to be home to slightly changing constants,
a broken delta sign -

I am so close to being a window,
but your eyes are yet to look through me.

hundred mediocre verses,
ten worthy poems,
one golden idea.

i want to write you down
in so many strings
across so many thoughts,
frantically trying to connect the hollows in your shoulders to my fingers,
the small of your back to my arms.

i want to lay you down
in so many words,
across so many pages,
measuring your skin with my eyes,
your chest with my breath, your voice with the beating of my heart.

i want to write you down in so many poems,
that you take root through my pages, deep down,
in the depths of memory.

बूँद-बूँद बर्सू मैं पानी-पानी खेलूँ खेलूँ और बह जाऊं

Are clouds allowed to settle into the sun?
is rain allowed to curl up
against warm rays in the evening sky?
will rains be rains
if they aren't a messenger anymore?
will the earth miss sieges
yearned for?

In the eye of a yellow storm
in an afternoon canvas,
is rain allowed to un-spill?
To un-pour, un-cascade,
un-fall?

लब तेरे यूँ खुले जैसे हर्फ थे
होंठ पर यूँ घुले जैसे बर्फ थे

Is fire allowed to be consumed by soft snow?
are flames allowed to find a home
in the heart of winters,
nestled along heartlines of ice,
cosy, never cold,
will red still be red
if it is painted over by peace,
orange still orange
if the sun sets on stubborn fears?
In the embrace of gentle snow,
is fire allowed to un-burn?
To settle down in comfortable ashes,
to un-spark, un-engulf, un-destroy.

मैं आसमान, तू मेरी ज़मीं

You are silent storms
in balmy summers,
and I am a drizzle
rushing down to
embrace the
tepid earth.

You are
steady hands on
a keyboard and I am
haphazard syllables
splattered on pages.

You are knowing nods,
I am half-laughed
arguments.You
are the stillness
of the sky,
and I,
the
rippling river.

You are the
strength of knowing
what colours are willing
to listen to, and I am the
unexpected blooming riots of paint.

You are red evening skies,
and I am three and a
half lonely stars
- a heart, a soul, a mind,
and whatever lies in between.

You are the changing of the seasons,
and I am a foreign wind on
your skin. We are both
autumn, and what
it feels like
to fall.

technicolour troubles
weary blues, dreary dark green
riots are never grayscale