The Last Night

The Last Night




In the night bathed in rain
She sat with puckered lips and eyes dry,
Of the tears she shed the previous night

The night that was soaked in pain,
And her eyes had turned coral as she sat to cry
The night when the moon had shone bright;

But for the last time,
The night she had seen his face,
After he had kissed the lips of another,

Her heart stopped and lungs twisted
Seeing him like that in another’s embrace
Her throat burned and her stature trembled,

As she recalled that star-lit summer night,
When he had embraced her in his arms,
And had her heart surrendered;

The night of which she is thinking tonight,
Is no more than a vestige of the past
trapped in her mind,
But it does not matter to her tonight, for tonight she’ll breathe her last.

 

Out of Sight

I could feel alone, once again
but I am not
And this time I am sure
This time I am aware of the knot
that binds us, and reminds me
That I am with you, and you with me
You are in every breath, every sigh,
In my uncontrolled rage and my demeanour polite,
I am sure now, that you are there
Everywhere I am,
You are with me,
In the light of the day
In the dark of the night,
You sit by me, walk by me
In your invisible arms I cry,
Though I know and I am sure
You are always with me
As you have always been,
just out of sight, always by me.

Words of the World

Words of the World

Why do you hide your thoughts
behind the veil of your state-of-the-art vocabulary?
You talk about society and secularism from the knowledge you gained in the library.

Come down here,
Amidst the men of this earth, this country, state, district, village,
Set your feet amongst these men of the world;

See how they see and what they see
The torture, deaths, debts, and rapes,
Feel the burden of falling economy on their tired and old heads,
Walk with them on the drought-stricken lands and
Share with them a-day-old rotten bread.

And when you have known how they live,
When you are aware of the truth, the society, the people
Then talk of them, write, and preach
Your ideas in their language, in their words;

And only then will your words ever have meaning,

Else they will just be passionate masterpieces, meaningless verses
About bells, ghosts, and birds;

Afterall what story is a story, or a prose, or a poem
That is full of words, but empty of yourself,
unclear to the people of the world.

Before My Eyes Burn

 

Would you come now?
It’s getting late, and the sun is about to set;
I haven’t seen you with my open eyes
I cannot remember since when,
Would you come now?
Find me, follow the light;
Claim the part in my life that you have earned.
And if you intend to
Then look up in the sky and follow the smoke,
My heart is ash now;
Find me before my eyes begin to burn.

People tell me to tell them

Providence

People tell me to tell them
About the problems that I face,
The many demons that in my mind race,

But I am unsure if they will understand
If I could feel the pointlessness behind every point they make
From the people born of virgin mothers, to the ones who were burnt at stake.

Would any of them understand?
Those people who tell me to tell them
But about what should I tell them?
Which devious thoughts of mine should
I dare to share?

That I find their so called socialising like a parasite in nature,
A mutualism that sustains by feeding off each other,
Or should I tell them
That I am tired, reaching exhaustion, of the petty sarcasms,
That my ears might begin to bleed in rage,
That their exclaimations and apostrophes of “I know!”
Is infact, probably, the most stupendous act.

People tell me to tell them
But should I tell them?
That I think that what we think of each other is almost always false,
Framing and exhibiting judgements on others is not a job of ours;

It is not because we are incapable
But because we don’t know each other,
A proclamation would be either an ignorant or an innocent lie,
And I don’t see any providence in it
When we all are meant to die.

 

Almost Funny

Almost Funny

On a frayed carpet that dresses the gallery of a hotel

In the backseat of a stolen car parked in the parking lot;

In the river over which the sunshine floats away

Or in the corner of a tiny room, that is silenced by humane scream;

And at the bottom of an empty bottle of whiskey

Or driving at a pace that is way too risky,

In the first sniff of a chemical that promises fleeting highs

And between the vacant space of a women’s spread thighs,

It is almost slightly funny, where one can find their dream.

 

Through the broken glass of an ancient window

Or beneath the crust of a lemon pie,

In a new city under an old bus stand

In the flickering glimmer of a firefly’s flight,

Or perhaps in the dizziness at the Himalayan heights;

Amidst the pucker and wrinkles of a barren field

In the last bite of a friend’s chocolate ice cream,

In the emotion of a lost one’s freckled picture,

It is almost slightly funny, where one can find their dream.

 

Sometimes in a drawers of an old cupboard

And in the glimpse of a pearl in depths of a vast sea;

In the silence of a calm and dark dawn

On the bridge to a long forgotten island

Or in the direction where the autumnal breeze fleas;

Maybe in the vortex of a western squall

Perhaps in the shape of the dancing leaves,

Or in the last page of a hidden file,

It is almost strange, where one can find their dream.