These slanted lines of
the decayed love,
make one final cry
before the final death.
As these crooked lines,
move backwards;
they first wriggle,
and then die a slow death.
Leaving no pain, but mouldy
ashes of unspoken words.
Greenish speckled spots,
imposed on the last
love lines.
.
My mom told me,
dad was a first born.
First born and lovers
always go away…
I travelled to far-flung
lands, never staying
more than a year or so.
It gutted me to explain
everything; the father…
the lover and everything
in between, but then
I remember, I’m a first-born,
and moved away.
Why do I feel?
I’m trying to catch,
But I’m left far-far behind?
It’s not a step but ,
a thousand miles
apart.
But some days I don’t
even try, I can’t make
up for the untrodden
paths or stride fast
to reach where I
shouldn’t.
So many words are not spoken,
some promises are not kept, but
sans complaints or regrets.
When all is done, we will
simply move on. You brought
a grim hue but it still formed
a rainbow in a clear sky.
Tiny quiverings, cold
hands a realization
I ‘m not my best.
May be we don’t belong
here but there remains
a thin strand of humanity,
a hope small but a hope.
When you expect others
to be douchebags,
a sudden jolt of
kindness is indeed
a miracle.
Pulsating beats,
again a trigger,
although smiling
Inside I know,
It is again out
to get me.
Mr. Fly I know you have a story too,
but forgive I’ve some things to pursue.
For once raven nights are no time my
friend to buzz and tell me why?
So Mr. Fly flutter , flap and fly away
go suck the nectar of a flower,
request you to never hover;
mistaking whiff of attar, for a floret.
I can’t tolerate and ignore it anymore.
Reminds of the Nash who spoke the
truth ,“ God in his wisdom made the
fly and then forgot to tell us why.”
In the morning
When I began to wake,
It happened again-
That feeling
That you, beloved,
Had stood over me all night
Keeping watch,
That as soon as I begin to stir,
You put lips on my forehead
and lit a holy lamp
inside a heart.
-Hafiz
Silence a shrine,
where unfolds
myriad tiny miracles;
obscure to that
naked eye.
Whispers of souls are
forever captured in the
turquoise mosaics
of stillness.
A sudden shrill,
the prayer and the
pilgrim dries up.
