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

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

well-rounded intentions.


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

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.
'Egomaniac!'
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.

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.

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

                          We seek

this                            love

        of            modern

    physics.                 Maybe brighter

days will

                                   forgive us

I

In her eyes, he could see
the boisterous nature of life
the visions of future, and the scope of silence in between.

II

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.


III

A boisterous seeker, peripheral and pragmatic in conclusions, beginnings without answers: the stone that sought fire and wore it off in air.

IV

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.

V

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.