The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes inner child within me.

I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.

I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.

I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.

I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.

I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.

I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.

Someday I’ll have a desk, with a scenic view
In nature, where modernity I can eschew.
I’ll write stories, some might even be true;
And I’ll be free, do always what I choose to:
Escape this wretched trap that benefits the few,
Finally be content, not always so blue.
If this sounds appealing, I hope you find it too.

December 10th 2016..

She tears not in tears..

She woes in words..

She cries in colours..

She is neigh nature..

A scenic soul..

An oceanic oblivion..

A looming lotus..

A delightful darkness..

A ballerina of blues..

A revelation of fire reds..

A puzzle of purples..

And a quiet question.

I have been thinking about how fictional worlds thread with our realities,
how if you read a book,
watch a film,
see a play,
the subject matter and themes will unconsciously make their way into your daydreams,
I had been watching pride and prejudice,
thinking of Pemberley Estate,
the countryside,
how English hills can flood with hanging low mist,
overcast and soft,
mild, almost ethereal,
or how it may tear itself open,
on ripe summer days,
the ground verdant and full,
I see an image of us, by a lake,
perhaps an old-fashioned picnic basket,
cherries, peaches, strawberries, plums,
feeding each-other grapes,
we could dip our feet in the water,
laze and kiss and,
have all in the time in the world somehow.
I would have a book of poetry,
Sappho perhaps, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,
I could show you the ones I think you might like,
feed you a strawberry,
read you wild nights,
our hair and hands all tangled,
our words and thoughts entwined too,
and we forget all about the beautiful countryside, and the fruit, and the poetry,
for moments and moments.

Close your eyes and listen,
Smell the aroma in the air.
Roam where there is no WiFi,
Wander without a care.

Take the scenic route,
Get outside and explore.
Stroll through the woods,
And walk along the shore.

Dream with your eyes open,
Make the day all yours.
Do more than just exist,
Enjoy the great outdoors.

Your voice is the perfect song to listen to on a road trip.
To view all the things that remind me of you.
Miles away from the stress of work.
Your voice, the open road.
Someone I can love, no traffic jam in sight.
The goosebumps from the air on full blast.
To feel love when no love is felt.
A broken down car with someone to help when something is wrong.
The air tastes different, miles away from the city.
A euphoric high.
Your voice a beautiful path.
My phone thrown somewhere in the backseat traveling a scenic road I've never been.
No track of time.
The thing about disease is that you never know until its too late.
It spreads. Becoming infectious.
You've become my relief, my cure.
Your voice like the breeze flowing through my hand.
Your voice the only other sound that could be heard outside of the car and the road.
I've kissed the air a thousand times over.
Driving pass my destination.
Listening to the sound of your voice.
I don't want to move from behind the steering wheel.
What's a couple hundred more miles.
You guiding me pass every exit sign.
Enjoying the ride

We're all headed to the same destination.
Why not take the scenic route?