In the purgatory
of etched ink
I was asked
"Where have you
hidden
your happy heart?"

Perhaps, I lost it
in the sea
of noctural whimpers
or had it stolen
by the fleeting bird
called chance

The umbrella of sunshine
against broken blues
is nowhere to  be found.

"What you carry within,
a dismembered array
of broken hearts
are not your own."

Go find your happy heart
of childhood.

Stop making suffering beautiful
Stop twining words with death
And making ladders and ladders of poetry
Which I am tempted to climb
Hoping for an eternity

Stop making art out of suffering
Stop dancing to tunes of whimpers

How sorrow flows,
as it gently nudges
at the edge of my elbow
again and again.
Until I turn around and
surrender.

How sorrow grows,
from a little moment of
discomfort,
shame or death of a feeling,
which was once dear...

Into a monster
who cannot differentiate
love from hate.

Sorrow flows,
like the monthly massacre
of a woman's
body, week and dreams,
gestating
from a tiny cell.

Tiny black bulging dots
Marching in a skewed line,
They hunt down,
The syrupy hints left by your sweet boxes...
To fill up their primitive huts,

so no fellow ant dies-
hungry.

I wonder often
To myself,

Humans with green, blue and yellow revolutions,
And Bt products,
Are perhaps the only species,
Which suffers the worst hungers known.
I haven’t seen malnutrition in ants.

Can I take you
to visit a favourite time
of a decade or two ago
when there were many trees
surrounding large terraces -
and hung from wooden sticks were
Old clothes left out to dry
That began to fly with
Wind on a summer’s day

There are slivers of
my heart
Which fly and soar high
Only to crash and bloodily weep
As they land,
On that stage
Where I will never be
Or that page
Where my words will never speak
Or the summer
lost from sight by tears of silly endeavours
Or the sweet little spring
in between the desert which dries faster
than I can run

Oh this emptiness
like between the vase and
the shrivelled flowers within
Dried now, a thing of past
but which once came
from someone as
a beautiful present.

The poverty of patience
clutches at my soul
as I no more wait to hear
the ends of songs,
the middle of the stories
and the loved ones' complain.

Stuck in the chorus of one,
while the melody of the other recalls
a painful nostalgia, which
further disencumbers a story...