History May Repeat Itself

I notice a new word everyday;
They keep blocking my senses,
Or will they rescue them?

I am collecting the garden
Petal by petal;
So that my lap will ever smell of
The redness and the greenness,
And some wanderers.

I am knitting the never known;
I am kissing the unknown;
And they are loving the new known.

What will happen to the moths,
How will the fingers running down
The candle breathe,
If I die?

Probably moths and butterflies,
Need none but the one in them;
Wanderers will find a new garden
In the lapse of my funeral…

And my words…
I am waiting for them to form
A letter: of blooming and withering flowers,
Of sun and earth,
Of night and stars,
Of eyes and wine,
With a sprinkle of thorns.

I will keep a shadow for every pulse,
Till my room smells of years,
And my blue roses dry,
And the music gets strung to my background.

Stale is not the story;
Weird may fit my pages;
But the one that writes the
First line is a Transition.

A sculpture once formed
Will not like a twin,
So I pray for the birds to
Forget my fictions,
And dive into my diaries.

They may find a woman perfected,
Closed in her petals again.

Give Me A Night

Give me a night
Of stillness of a cadaver;
As ants gather around my bed
To say one last goodbye,
And the only audible beats
Are the thumps of The Coming,
And The Unseen.

Before my eyes
You take away the colours;
And I am bound to enjoy
The shrieks of distorted triangles
And squares.

I ache to hear my silence,
And the heaving of the breaths...

Why does my phone blink,
When there is no one on the other end?

“Nancy o silly…
Pick up my call.
Your funeral is getting late,
The undertaker has to take home
The living bodies of the left dead”.

Take the clown away
From the screen of this TV,
It’s asking me for a reply,
For the question that was never heard.

A hand tells me to gobble down a pill;
A hidden face looms over with victorious eyes...

No one knows what lies in a skull;
A virgin clasped in the opaqueness of time.

Let me tell you what are you missing honey,
Kill me tomorrow,
Just give me a night.

A Missing Link

Last night I tried hard to put
The two worlds together,
But my dreams left me,
For a change…

So I start hereby again to
Draw couplets into life

Lately someone talked about the earth
And the heavens and the moon

Where did the sun go?

I didn’t hide it;
I just stole a ray and kept it in
My heart

Man and earth ...
Stars and night…
Pearls and shell…
I lost myself to the chunks of desires

Explicit and implicit chords
Kept the chain of life swinging,
And all that’s left now is
Blurred perception.

Still…I await my moira.

Happiness knows no bounds,
Maybe that’s why we live in
A ring…
An empty one…
Full with bounded breaths

Don’t wait till I come,
Don’t live till I die.

Unwanted fruits have a story too,
They over live to sing their songs,
But only whispers are smelt
In their rotten cries.

In Words Of A Shell...

Obsession they call it,
Maddening it seems,
It flares and burns,
And yet I seek that speck of smoke.

“Invisibility asks herself
When her lake seems empty”

Probably water never has a source,
It’s born to flow;
There is no from or to.

It awaits a revival…
Of closed water spaces,
And dreams of the untouched,
And the latent;
Hiding the weeds that long
For bubbles of air.

The moon glamorizes the
Tender touch,
As long and short tides entangle
In their rhythms.

And…
Shakespeare’s sonnets still
Reverberate in the mermaids’ hymns,
As couplets merge into the songs of
Involuntary beats.

Storms rise and fall;
Rains soak and dry;
Oceans merge and break.

But the empty lake that
Started from Nadir still
Flows…

And it will…forever

Emptiness doesn’t need a reason
To commit another crime…

Let gratification be blamed for
The unlived Shakespeare’s life.

Reflecting Upon A Mirage

My mirrors break everyday,
And still they form, from the
Disoriented pieces of glass.

A hand wipes off the dirt
From the entangled roots of
A tree,
To discover more twists in
The circling tornado of soils.

A box of true lies,
A shredded cloth hiding some smiles,
And the left overs of some days…
They all wait to get buried in the
Never daring silence of my
Ward robe.

Time walks by ,as fingers
Run the rally of impossibilities,
They know they would never
Get their pride…

Still they wait and run,
And stop and run,
And weep and run,
And now they are tired.

Eyes seek elixir in the words of Rumi,
Ears yearn for Shakespeare to come alive,
But again….
Some words break my mirrors at night.

Red- A Reminiscence

Red leaves hide the monuments of time
On that very bench;
And that engraved history.

That’s how it started maybe…

The breadths of roads were mere
Counts of leaves they were washed in;
Some strangers would have walked
There in the loneliness of winters,
Craving the warmth of sunshine.

Epitaphs…
Red again…
The leaves merging with
The rotten fluid of silenced
Cries.

And as I opened my eyes,
The vase beside me primed
The clock…anti clockwise.

Why are you still awake?
Hallucinations are a better way
To touch life.

Fiction

Numbness redefines itself…
Ask the snow its legend,
Read the eyes of the bedridden,
And if you still seek a reply,
Come to me

My story may not be any different
From my next door neighbor,
It has a plot,
A beginning,
A climax and an anti climax too,
And then its ends,
Without a full stop

I may try a riddle next life,
They are hard to end,
And don’t need a full stop

Red, yellow, green
Are the same to me sometimes,
Am I colour blind
Or disillusioned from light?

I wear the same face everyday,
But the eyes who once beheld me
Cannot see it at night

They will one day…
When my author will put
A beautiful epilogue before
The final dot

Until then incompleteness
Serves as the antonym
Of perfection