I'd give anything to read how an author describes me.
An author writes his characters as a wonder, a shining beacon of light, almost inhuman.
Really these characters - brave, smart, kind - are just like us.
Just like me.
So I want to know:
Am I brave?
Am I kind?
Am I smart?
Am I passive or active?
Am I intriguing or impressive?
Inspiring or insightful?
Amazing or attractive?
Strong or beautiful?
You know all these words.
You read all these words.
How an author writes his characters
With adjectives that seem inhumanly possible to describe anyone on this earth
Especially yourself.
But they could be used to describe you
And you just don't know it
That's why I'd give anything to read an author's description of me.
I need to know.
What adjectives paint the picture of me?

"Here's a challenge for you,"
He told me one afternoon.
We were finished studying
And boredom wasn't an option.

"Fire away," I answered,
Mind and pen already craving the task.

"Describe the colors black
And grey without saying the words."

I had an answer ready.
"A perfect villain."

He smirked. "You're a poet.
I know you can better."

I had another answer.
"Let me tell you a story.
But, be warned,
It isn't a happy one."

He rocked his chair
Back on two legs and
Folded his ink stained
Hands behind his head, waiting.

"He'd never killed anyone before.
The occasional art forgery, sure.
Dabbling in counterfeiting, guilty.
But he had never hurt anyone.
Now, as he looked at the man lying
Lifeless at his feet,
A part of his heart joined
The victim in the grave.
His life was over.

Twenty years later.

He didn't really keep track of time.
What was the point?
After all, we were all destined for the grave.
Might as well not count down the days to it.
He and death were old friends,
Well acquainted from many meetings.
He was Charon,
He ferried the dead.
Neither good nor evil,
He just was.
One day,
He wouldn't be."

My friend gave me one
Of his favored smirks.
"See? I told you
That you cold do better."

Once was loved,
but was suddenly stopped.

Loyal but betrayed,
Until led to astray.

In the dark it took flight.
Then he was born, the luminous night.

THE SOUL AND THE UNIVERSE
Divine presence, deep and invisible,
The elusive, mysterious soul,
Inherent in every living cell
And dormant in every particle;
In silence, moves and multiplies,
Evolves in various amazing shapes;
Vibrant in every being, it grows,
Shines through countless eyes -
Like sunrays glittering on rising waves
And moonbeams shining in every drop
On lotus leaves in a silent lake;
Like a luminous rainbow's purple hue
Merging softly with heaven's blue,
Blends with the elements, imperceptible,        
                 Beyond the grasp of the five senses,
Through the living links of breath and pulse,
Remains inseparable from the cosmic force;
In forms different, seeming distinct,
Yet, one with the Universe around.
*    *  M.G.Narasimha Murthy

there are three white chairs
two black
one red
there are four grey tables
one here
three over there
the boys sit in the red and black
the girls sit on the white
the teacher stands at the front
the lesson is taught on the big white board
the floor is covered in red carpet
the door is made of wood
there are two tissue boxes
one blue
one green
there are four grey cabinets
two black
two white
the walls are made of plaster
they are slathered in white paint
the boxes consist of cardboard
none of the students has red hair
only one has blonde
the teacher is the redhead
the room is complete

I want to wake up
to the richness of your voice.
A voice that looks like floral petals,
smells like fresh rain,
and sounds like the warmth of a
crackling fire.
Your words are light
yet fill the room
so that it swells like your chest
when you breathe.
And once our eyes
lose their fatigue,
we'd open up our rib cages.
and pass secrets like warm bread
while giggling under the blanket
where no one can see us.
We wouldn't need to go
and look at the night sky
because the Christmas lights
would be the stars
and you would be my moon,
shining in the darkness.
I never want to leave your arms.