Stroking strings and
feathered wings.

I read you,
and the way you
form your words,
your silence, which
lingers in the air.

What truths do you hide,
and the tricks up your sleeve
which peek stealthily past,
as you work your mind
into drunken frenzies.

Death evades me.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I pondered over your words,
silently memorizing your face,
my mind buzzed, as every possible
reason skipped around to present
a bouquet of thoughts.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I sat down to write memoirs
but no words came,
and my pen stopped mid-air,
while letters danced...

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I wished, secretly, that
you'd asked how much I love you,
for I would have answered:
"You are my first waking thought...
that's how much I love you."

'Cause for reasons on why do I love you,
my pen seems pathetically dry. ..

"Women like you!" - he spat.
And in those three words,
flowed the venom which drowned
everything else. ..

Sometimes, incredulous at
the way things take turns
at baffling us, and we're caught
by surprise, as life, which
grimaced mischievously before,

miraculously rearranges its
features; a kind hand, though
virtual, extends through the
boundaries of invisible channels,
almost touching...

and there, in those moments,
I struggle to find the right words,
relying instead on my emojis
to convey the rest...

When love dies young,
like a rose plucked by a curious
kid's stubby fingers, right after
it bloomed in full sight.

The poet clutches his pen, still,
in a maddening rush, scribbling
half writ songs with no endings...
the fire crackles quietly in a corner,

and even its heat is not enough
to melt the frost which envelops
the air; when words are spewed but
future seems bleak, as sand

in an hourglass slips by, waiting
to be upturned, and yet another
love dies young, while the crowd
watches in sheer indifference.

In between mid nights
washed with moon light,
I wondered then,
if sadness can be alluring.

But we are fooled,
and there's nothing left,
or at least nothing,
of importance, except

half- dreamed hallucinations
and broken wings,
while sadness lingers
upon her eye lids...

I wonder
if I am (still)

the distant roar
that travels shyly
past your ears

while you sleep.

My eyes
make love to you
in stormy nights

while you sleep.

How terrible it must be,
to hold a pen which forgets to bleed,
where inks turn transparent,
like water running down streams,
where tears form beads of sorrow,
glistening in every wake,
while the muse slumbers on,
peacefully ignorant, of the whirlwind
its absence creates...

There was once a buggered old hen,
who thought of writing with a pen.
But her nose went pink
when she drank some ink.
Gagging, she cried, 'Never again!'