Why should you study?
And persevere? And listen?
And write? For people--
For the people you'll see, for there are just
few you'll. And still fewer among them, who
will be around to see you.
In a makeshift heaven of this world,
This world fits right in- not without gaps,
Not the best close-packing ever.
Which lets you think and shift the pieces forever.
Not at all exciting, if you want to
See it that way. But do you have a choice--
Except all the the ones you haven't tried
already? Hinged to the far side of moon
You might be, but wither you'll soundlessly
off this grand tree. So a fair chance there is
you might see, where this is going and realize soon: You won't know if science has advanced, You won't know if you've made enough amends, You won't know anything
except for the people you'll see, even what they've to say, you've to understand.
In her eyes, he could see
the boisterous nature of life
the visions of future, and the scope of silence in between.
All I'm doing is, living off my resources: inside a storm, maybe.
Still death cannot be simplified and its contours lie within me, despite the scales before me.
A boisterous seeker, peripheral and pragmatic in conclusions, beginnings without answers: the stone that sought fire and wore it off in air.
Maybe you know this,
Our *** is not intuitive not impulsive neither terse, not the least deniable: a cadenza to the violent soul of nature, our language and its mistakes impromptu every second.
Look! the landscape- its frozen miniatures configured within: dwellers on its ***** and creases, cheering the new sun, its sheer magnitude -the sum of their lives now, this moment.
Today, I got to open the door
They **** everywhere
They **** in the elevator, in the
long hallway, in the truth vending machine:
My brave heart sought a glance from,
Countless(not always) times averted had I,
Now I sought(in snatches)- vain and askance
I stood, exacted by the same meekness.
I could've atleast cried aloud within,
My throbbing brain alone.
Resolve and break off, neatly tucked away.
They **** in my bathroom. They are in a storm. But eyes unclouded, I could see!
Them *******, Their hands all over...
Exhaust pipes mirroring worlds, for all they care. They are clad in white, faces and all.
When I lie, telling the truth again:
Following it. Asking favours when dumb.
Part of them now stick out of me, Devolving white into the storm. They're seen with my
eyes, trained in my mind, Open my door.
Don't know much
about modern physics
All the ways the world
works, what's to be
said or undone
in these last few moments.
Only music on the
walls of history, taking cues
from the figures crossing
That's a perpetual evidence
Towering symphonies talking
us into (their homes): some delights
left and for
physics. Maybe brighter
Generally, whatever's said outside
some shack, some interim man's
dwelling/s- like his words
(are) just uttered in vain, not
cacophony, but smooth
round phrases, splayed with
Whether it's sonic reach
falls behind his sneeze
or his anger clouds the trees,
his shack- a mess of foul timber
shakes and struggles to hold
these words, an outflow of
his welled-up memories ( seared
through his longings)
haunted by willows, painful mist
and crumbling dwelling/s
Books devour the silence
that weighs down inside
like bright little creatures
they dream and breath
in their cosy little worlds
until each page sizzles
with a human touch
— The End —