Of days of walking,
Timeless time, of skin shedding,
Memories remain.

-

It was humid.
Cold perspiration paused
And peacefully reconciled.

-

Your soul imbued with mine.
Your downpour grounded me.
Your memories etched me
Into being.

No more a mere play
That warrants you to confront,
But a gaze, a breath, a step —
That is ready for your divinity.

-

Sunday — I wake with a start!
All this time was nothing
But a lethargic phase — egged on
By fear-induced routines.

Now what then? There must be
A start.....a starting point?
I see many — all enticing,
All epiphanic in nature.

And if I chose one,
Where will it end then?
Or should I just pick one —
Not worry about the ending?

-

Travel and you would have travelled the world.
Read and you would have travelled the world.
Sit down and listen - you would have travelled the world.

-

A moth lives and dies for the flame.
Amidst all the flames that blazes,
Its heart sets out for the worn out, flickering flame
That has a story to tell, a love to envelope
This fly whose flight was all about you.

-

Rusting from torrid rains
Yet never learning, these
Ignorant rods keep climbing.
The concrete they believe
To hold their childish goals
Has no base, or if there
Ever was, it's gone.

Their goal, to map out
The whole of cosmos with
The rules of their language,

But the language of nothing -
They refuse to comprehend -
Created them, the ground
And the air they breathe.

They carry on, climbing,
To what end?

-

I once met a man who believed in ghosts.
He had to - his wife was dead,
His sons and daughters, too.
Since he believed in no afterlife,
In ghosts he put all his trust.

-

This body breaking to be let out -
A certain kind of cold in the palms
The pit of stomach, the joints
Join the nervous heart.

The mind waiting for the fault
So it can be punished and be
Done with or hoping for an escape -
To somehow survive the day.

It begs the question.
Did the rot begin at the shoots?
During the first monsoon?
Was the spring so poor?

That life has become an endless winter,
Interspersed with autumn and
Monsoon and spring sprinkled
Every now and then?

-

I’m afraid I’ll cry
At the most inopportune times,
So I force myself to grieve
And begin anew every Monday.
But I always miss it,
Either too early or too late
But never on time.

I glance back and am harsh,
I look forward and am kind.
(Or the other way around - matters little)
I’m confused as of now,
And the “now” never stays.

-