The fear is not of drowning in your eyes,
nor sinking in those pools of translucent dews but
of being abandoned at the sides of your lips
by the myriad tear-drops.
The fear is not of drowning in your eyes,
nor sinking in those pools of translucent dews but
of being abandoned at the sides of your lips
by the myriad tear-drops.
The glittering words of hope are mere,
a few letters arched with a tip of pen.
Forced to live the relativity of a temporal life,
itched with the redundant barbed memories.
This throbbing pain is real while the golden
hope exists in a realm of a dream.
Trapped in a fluid body,
tentacles of burgundy garbed
thoughts oozing out like
myriad snake heads. Sniffing
somberly, the dark melancholia
pervasive in the air and then
crawling back, melting again
with the red hues.
In the dark corner of the house adorned a crimson hued Tabrizi rug,
gifted to me as the wedding present, imported from the mountains;
of Hindu-Kush, embellished with poppy flowers and lovers’ passionate hugs
Violet borders bejeweled with a fine needlework of embroidered springs.
Especially handcrafted from the hands of a virgin maid with lofty desires
Intricately woven with the woolly knits and exquisite twisted golden wires
So how it became a constant companion in my otherwise blissful nuptial voyage
taking the shape and creases of my body in its crimson folds, so clairvoyant
We both grew to confide and embrace each other on moonless nights
During the dark nights I would hear vague cries and faint sighs
And would awoke by the silent sobbing and consistent choking sounds
The tormenting shrills one makes when inflicted with a fresh wound
After long desperate searches in the eerie neighborhoods in vain
I decided to hunt down the sniveling offender on a night when it rain
As I searched and rifled, discovered it came from the joints of the rug
Deep with in the sews of silverfish anklets and bangles, felt as if on high drug
Veiled and shackled a gaunt silhouette appeared in the woolen cracks
Thickened clots of cherry blood from bruised hands left its tracks
The sobbing sounds grew louder and a known voice pierced through
“My virgin hands intricately weaved the wires of gold and silver to woe
I dared to dance with my heart’s desire with men of different tribe
A misconduct for which I was to be buried-alive in sews and imbibe
Frozen embalmed in the embroidered joints I came back from death
When your warm saline tear cascaded in my mouth I finally took a breath”
We became lovers of sorts, embracing on moonless nights,
Fasted and prayed on our Tabrizi rug, shed tears, took gentle sighs
It became a seminary a refuge when her or mine master was around!
Until the inauspicious day of a long lunar month when we both were found
Castrated for our naked sins, she was burnt while I was forever hound!
Pirouetting on the single
stringed lyres of the cerulean waves,
of the bottomless ocean.
Tonight is the night of copulation,
of full moon and blue tides.
Whirling round to evoke
Poseidon to take notice
of mine saline tear drops
consummating with the azure
foamy waters out of which
gushes forth tiny lemon
droplets of effervescent
froths.
I swayed and soared
in the clatter of pots
and pans, as the
sultry aromas of spices
aroused in me some
hidden desires.
Though I am the
cook and the Gardner,
such is my plight
that I am not offered
even a single bite.
Knowing there is no
respite, I scrapped the
waste morsels off
the site, you wished
a mild good night then
closed your eyes as
as I lay hungry on
your wild side with a
slight martyred pride.
Late night sirens and cheap
microwave popcorns,
an empty Chardonnay
and mounting bills
Why am I always in
this myself?
My mind racing
am I counting worries
by sugar teaspoons?
Frantically cleaning the
cemented floor to rub
of the coffee stains.
Will I ever make it? Is
the question many are
asking but why I be the one?
I smile and sing rhymes
longing for some
praise, after-all it’s
not a crime. Fears and
worries linger but
there is hope but
hope is dangerous and
uncertainty too sneaky.
Shall I make the first move
but It might never work.
Let me smile and just
keep it to myself.
No I’m not an open book.
I will throw fake smiles
at your placid jokes offer
an icy kiss but I rather be
a mystery and be by myself.
If I’am you,
you are me
and that’s all
than
we are us.
The wedding ring
lay heavy on the
third finger, as my
finger ages, it sunkens
and digs deep. The
wedding ring never
ages, its tiny diamonds
still sparkles, it glows
like a pale moon…
A woe, a misery it
has tight grip around
my swollen finger like
metal shackles…
It’s glorious sheen
encircles my timid heart
As I finish my odd chores
I look at my wedding-ring
It never ages!
I threw it once down the
stairs, had a toast to
myself but a well-wisher
left it in my porch.
I lamented!
My finger has aged but
the wedding ring never
ages!!
Behind those crooked smiles
lie some grief, little pain…
Those winning dimples,
sunken deep in cheeks
hollowed by cheap joints
of gas-stations telling tales
of murky betrayals.
Ruby wines oozing of
the pale veins in those
abandoned cabarets.
Love a Wasteland!
She did bloom a Rose
or a Tulip
somewhere!