I long back destroyed every lipstick
Every letter you sent me
Once on those opulently designed 'Archie' letter pads
All except one...
Actually, I couldn't find it anywhere
Somehow... it just vanished,
Died out into thin air,
I guess it became the fountain inside me,
Ceaselessly spraying and pouring
Alongside the coloured lights and music,
And yet always thirsty!
I always loved the way your eyes
flared up the moment we met each time;
I guess the fire became the eternal warmth
In my heart and joy for
The rest of my unborn poetry!
I can never forget the first time
I nervously kissed
Your hand at
Somehow gathering all my strength
And chivalry together;
I guess that became both the cause
and soul in my myriad love symmetry...
My so called love life poetry!
I never perhaps went seriously
Searching for you once I knew
That you had indeed suddenly vanished from my life;
I guess that became the eternal longing
Invisibly visible for the rest of my life and poetry!
Another unfinished mile;
Guess I will have to come back again
Some other life to write my epitaph...
Looking for my cold grave blankly
Waiting somewhere solitarily!
Nativity and Rusts
A Lucent river
And an epic puzzle
Don't run fast when the cloud is above your head;
For once when they rolled the dice upon the earth
And it kept seeking me
And I, in the other land
On the other timeline
There are some birds on my shoulder
Devoured by a restless sky,
And then I was not even a statue
And by no chance I walked
Inside the lanes of rain
Awake on the platform signed by hysteria;
Those creeping creatures,
And yet claiming
The sky was knit by them
I wanted a rope hanging from the sky
And tie there a basket
And keep all things there that I cannot take care off
And assume the sky would pull the rope back
Whenever someone tries to steal something;
In my dreams I often see a massive ship,
And a canvas of ornamental darkness;
To keep away the things
And I asked them to join all the rivers by lanes
And keep cycling there;
There could be a day when I will put my hand inside that bag
Maybe to get the glass-ball or a pin that can pierce through a bending river to stitch my
Thoughts and memories and keep them
in the basket again...
Maybe I will put my hand inside the bag and
Rather land my hand on a comet
That will take me away at lightning speed,
Far away from myself
And I will remain a ghost
In your tiny street
In my daylight hallucination
And the grills in the window would wake up from their dreams and thrashing the glasses In the window
Would swim in a therapeutic freedom
But would come back
To rest beneath
In the sea of irrational abyss.
Don't stand in the middle of the road like a scarecrow;
Don't distract the stars
I don't want none of them inside the prison;
Tie up those amaranthine wood logs;
Someone scattered them there
After cutting the trees in delusion.
Walk like the roots from your foot
Crawl inside the earth
And become the only reason for it to rotate
For the final
3. For all things electrical
Mirages can suit it no more.
It is in business.
Resplendent architectures all around.
From the terrace if one looks out far, far away
To spot a nomad
And send some messages wrapped in resignation.....
You don't then sign on the envelops.
Some men from the past still live there
And are creating guinea pigs from the wind,
Trapped inside the paper walls drifting in emptiness,
To sing for everything that what is 'other' a chronicle of sporadic seizures.
An overrated raconteur after all.
I wanted to write a song
For all those people who are not earth
Rather are some planets
Just orbiting around
Dictated or painted by a realm soaked in all those bizarre relevance!
What is purposelessness?
What is inorganic?
What is dead?
What is orange?
Or all the ether in between ....
Lost in the orbits of perdition, what else is?
All those people who are not earth
And wonder about the stars
And the million years of death.
Hanging from the pulley,
The bucket of evolution
Inside the well of love and disappearance;
On the other end of the rope
Countless moments of uncertainty....
Imprisoned by that character of nothingness.
A Mail Box
Attached to an old,
An almost unused
Mail box is musing
Her glorious pasts,
When the postmen used
To unveil her breast
Twice a day
Brimmed with words of heart.
Now nobody cares
To drop a letter
Except a girl of
Seven; who writes to
Her dear mother
Residing in peace
In God's heaven.
The box is now like
An old lady with
Her withering dreams
To pass away in
The reeling of time.