To be just a face in somebody’s yearbook,
tenderly remembered by some eyes,
or maybe softly forgotten.
To be a passing stranger in the street,
Filling the background as if following
The imaginary script of someone else’s life.
Coexisting in pages,or between the lines,
of multiple existing storylines.
Playing a loyal friend sometimes—
The bubbly crush or the terrible villain
once or twice.
Whatever the role..
..we end up just lingering.
..Craving.. that funny, ephemeral feeling.
We end up just lingering,
Yearning, to be part of
A day, a page.
A chapter, a year.

a fistful of wishes
is all i have:
if i let go, i’m afraid
they’ll wither away,
like dandelion petals
on the back of a rescue dog;
if i hold on too long,
I’m afraid -
they’ll crumble -
like my illusions of being.

the fist gets tighter;
and i’m still waiting -
for the punchline.

pulverized by desolate winds;
brutalized by ungodly kings;
capsized by the violent waves;
neutralized by the scorpion’s sting.

terrorized by the thoughts of morrow;
legitimized by a trademark of sorrow;
authorized to live in vain;
generalized - like the streets,
and the boroughs.

synthesized by the alchemy of remorses;
romanticized… like the dark horses;
mesmerized by the notion of vengeance -
hypnotized by even darker curses.

digitized by the ways of future;
mystified by metrics, and conjectures;
specialized in the pursuit of reality -
'civilized' by the grand architecture.

i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day,
i wonder -
how i’d feel about it the next day;
to not have a memory i can name;
to come out the other side,
to realize -
the story’s still the same.

what would i even call such a day?
i guess - it’d still be a regular day...
for others to see me -
like, they’ve always seen me
under the sun.
just for a day,
put my soul out of the equation.    

i wonder where i’d even start,
with my mind, and my tongue -
both poles apart.
no self-esteem to feed,
nor the regrets -
to fight about.
****!
what would i even write about...?

dull and lustless,
i walk the streets -
looking at the trees -
the sweet shops
the library
the branded cabs
the grass fields  
the trickling pipes  
the street performers
the brown leaves
the eagle’s flight
the day
the ‘real’ men
the ‘real’ women
the idea of them
the average joes  
the instagram ******  
the mindless jocks
the humbler saints
the rich folks
the poor lepers
the clay pots
the rain
my life;  
all devoid of charm.

what’s left to do,
but seek love?

In an endless universe, vast and profound,
Our mortal lives, but transient recollections bound.
We are but a speck in this cosmic dance,
In a cosmic waltz, in this universe we glance.
Yet, in our brief existence, we find beauty immense,
A momentary swift of the universe's suspense.
For in our tiny moments, we create our mark,
Leaving our imprint in this cosmic lark.

i feign to say
what i cannot share.
bite my tongue
like i do not care.
the demons draw blood,
as i beg for air.
here comes a verse…
i did not prepare.

sullied by half-truths,
the mind lays bare -
to a world of treachery;
governed by distant affairs.
i cannot be a saint,
though i have some
good to spare;  
they fuel my incense, as i -
say my morning prayers.

look around -
they’re everywhere.
the sinners crawl from
the devil’s lair;
they coerce me to follow:
how’s that fair?
**** it -
i’ll end it here.