The chime of common things
Keeps time with chords of wind
Calls me a soft note
In the music of the spheres

In recent moments I long for a miracle, something so grand and awe inspiring.
Oft times I wonder how come the sky's so bright yet humans have lost themselves in an endless night? I have no fear, save for the fear of myself for I am the bone of my sword and the bane of my existence. I may not be a demon, but I gave myself a taste of hellfire. I long to feel that awe inspiring connection to another whom I have equal reasons to hate yet choose to love, she's close yet so far away. It's like a thermodynamic miracle... An event with odds so astronomical they're effectively impossible, like oxygen spontaneously becoming gold. I longed to observe such a thing, and now I have. I wonder, what drives me to you ? I gazed continually at the world and it dulled in my perspective. But you remained bright, how is it so ? That amongst the humans I so gleefully despise I found a life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg. I do not believe that existence is random, that it has no pattern save what we imagine. And after staring at it for so long. Perhaps life may have no meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world shaped by a vague metaphysical force and for a reason he lead me to you, against all odd Oxygen turned into gold.

When i was young, my skin was smooth and soft and un-ravaged.
Then, I grew up, and my top and bottom cheeks sagged, and my laughter
became a tangible memory around the corners of my eyes.
Now, when I smile, there are dimples and there are lines,
like the life-line and the love-line which are supposed to spell out my story
on the palm of my hand.
When I opened my eyes as a child, I saw brown water and blue skies and popsicles.
I saw floats on a lake and boats and friends splashing in from a water-trampoline,
yellow life jackets bobbing and children shouting.
Now, I still see blue skies, but sometimes there are white clouds and sometimes grey.  
I see my mother with her own memories of laughter around her eyes and I see the crevices
at the edges of my father’s mouth from smiling and frowning.
I smell flowers now, and little boys inform me they're fuschia, and when I breathe
at night my pillow smells like London and my room like lavender so I am home and
abroad at once.
Once, when I was sad, I would think mommy and daddy mommy and daddy.  
Now, when I am afraid, I think mommy mommy daddy I miss you.  
I sleep in a twin bed and I tickle myself and it is like I am in kindergarten but now
my fantasies are slicker and harsher but they still paint pictures of a school girl.
I lay in shivasna when I was young yet not old, and I saw a peach pit uncovered,
and it transcended back in time to a baby, just born in the world, and I realized
how it is we can die before our bodies do, how our minds can leave even though
we physically stay.

Exclusive world, beyond the curtains, inarticulate taboo, provoke to think, arousing emotions, atmosphere mood, forbidden truth in a reality shared by only few, every scar I have upon arrival here had been worth it. Death is not the last act at the other end of the theatre. As for my own self, it belongs to me and myself only. Individuality here in a collection of other individuals, the meaning of life has no face or pulse. For I stepped not into a stupor of madness or exile. A realm of Muses and a kingdom of those who know power and I am smiling.

Nature adorns her vacuums:

               Eden, in lieu of Gardener or Keep, overdrives the breach;

    garland wreaths, julep leaves, Clover carpets

          the well-dint of the fleeing heel,    

             just as Vitality, from Lushness, deserts to humbling Humus.      

                                     I bargain that We will        

                 be survived by teeming hosts of white Chrysanthemum.        

  Our grim miracle resembling, so, fish and loaves;    

                of Manna eked of Woe.



Staid amatory shall cater the craving of a brood;    

        from our tears rich elixir brewed,      

          our tender flanks yielding stew.    

         Scarcity is Her own aphrodisiac,    

      abused in company of more than two.      



    But sure as Man, worms lapse at their hour      

      and they, their own kind, must consume  

            giving back Space, where is room.      

        So, must we, our own Passion’s devour,

   that made manifest they replenish their expanse,      

            as when a hand replenishes a glove--      

     it first breathes upon the absence of Absence.    

           Let us, then, dine. Let us then, Love…

She handpicked the hearts as fruit
And  never said whom she would choose
But  torn they were from their vines
Oblivious to their use
In making finest timeless wine

And only history would know
This taste that would endure the flow
Of time, of memory, and mortal minds,
One destiny, herself, designed