In disbelief

She accepted his refusal
It squeezed out all the passion from her heart
Sucked in all the life from her soul,
Now she roams zombie-like, undead
And the cold words of people don’t instil shiver in her form
The heat of jealousy doesn’t burn her gut,
Phrases of praise have lost their meaning to her
And now, she is as good as The Thinker
Who sits sculpted, contemplating a single moment
Of ache, loss, and grief
Unaware, of people, admirers and haters
She sits accepting his refusal
Like a statue of stone, in disbelief.



Find me a shade darker than the shadows
of all men, and beasts
Let me wallow in it, let all my agitated senses rest
Lend me a silence that surpasses that of the dead, and decayed
Let no voice be heard, no song be played,
Gift me the isolation that reigns over the stretches of the Thar
And let me the repose of soldiers dead in the war,
Let a bleak ambience take over my shape, and my soul
Make me a shade darker and stranger than the ghosts
Let me be forgotten as those trifle twigs that make up a sparrow’s nest
Find me a cocoon in which like an oblivious worm, I can lay myself to rest.

Poetic longings

Sometimes, after witnessing and experiencing life,
In all its minute glory and mighty shame
It’s completeness and emptiness,
Contemplating on its myriad faces and shapes
That from and deform with the illusion of fleeting time,
In the deepest recesses of my mind
An urge expresses itself,
a longing of being a poet,
Ignorant of all the acceptances and refusals,
An insignificant crack on a further insignificant piece of glass, which makes up the mosaic of existence,
And lose my days in sheer oblivion
Of all substances, and nature
Without a drop of care in my eyes, without a frown of worry between the gap of my brows,
A poet if I could be, I would be
Unaware of all the voes that life is subject to,
And wander, in a stagant posture,
In the expanse of thoughts, which stretch without boundaries
Ever-malleable, birthing and departing
In and from my mind,
An live in eternal tranquility
In the ever expanding confines of the world,
That I device,
If I could be a poet,
I would tread eternally at the seams of eternity

And never give up.

Situation called life

Every day I walk blinded
Thoughts like thick smog
Clad the light in my head,
And as the present turns into past
I lie in wait for the silence
To come and lay me to bed.

Every day pain comes
Like lightning crashes in the rain
Jolts me wide awake,
And as the day slowly transforms into night
I utter all false words of grace
Not for myself but for the world’s sake.

And then this situation called life

Repeats itself

Again, and again; and again.

Oh silence,

Oh silence, my nearest and dearest
My only, and perpetual friend,
You stay amidst the presence of all
In my heart, hidden
Like the breeze is always upon the see
It’s a matter of if you feel or not;

Oh silence, my closest of acquaintances
You are there when no one is
Accompanying me when I am alone
And a considerate friend you are
Always awarding space to my thoughts;

Oh silence, my trustworthy and selfless companion
You never want and you never deceive
No misconception or misunderstanding
have I ever felt in your presence
You stay what you are and you let me be;

Oh silence, the medicine to all my woes
I never need an invitation,
And you always pay heed to my call,
In such statute-like stagnance you dwell with me
Yet never ask me to leave;

Oh silence, none but on you I can rely
And be at peace with the consolation,
You share all my secrets
And tell no one,
You embrace all the tears I cry,
And though I am a cripple at heart,
The day when I can no longer live
On your invisible wings, I shall fly.



On one side dwells the dark
On the other side shines the light
Between them I oscillate like a pendulum
Unaware, which one’s there and which one’s not;

Which side should I crawl to?
The light shimmers so much
I can’t open my eyes,
The darkness looks at me,
invites me, like a friend, towards itself,
And the hinge that keeps me held
is slowly loosening;

Should I wait for it to get undone?
And see where I land,
Because here where I hang
Between light and dark
Life is but unsure
and only death seems certain,
Rest all is just a farce,
A petty game of chance.