The Morning Poem

They say you rise and fall.
Everyday.
Hues of Orange and a tinge of red.
Blues of the sky and a tinge of cloudy white.
Every morning.

They say you mark the beginning and end.
Of everyday.
Colors of life and a hint of death.
Shivers of uncertainty and a hint of hope.
Of Every morning.

I say, you only rise and not fall.
With Every moment.
Rays of all Colors and a tinge of poetry.
Skies of your demeanour and a rhyme scheme of life.
With Every heartbeat.

I believe, you chart a life cycle
Of every being.
Tunes of a mystery and a hint of monotony.
Stories of your energy and a hint of your colors.
In everyone of us.

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Mirrors

I'm surrounded by mirrors.
Mirrors that can talk.
Some agitate me, some calm me down.
Some levitate me, some let me down.
Some scare, some fear,
Some motivate, some permeate.
But all of them reflect
Different versions of me.
All of these mirrors,
Each carrying a unique reflection,
Are closing in on me.
I'm at the centre of it all.
The more I observe,
The more I discover.
Different aspects, different perspectives.
Shining with details.
And the moment I accept a reflection,
The mirror carrying it becomes
A part of me.
It's pieced, stitched into me.
That reflection, that aspect
Now grows in me.
I'm, but a collection of mirrors,
Mirrors that once talked to me.
I'm, but a collection of reflections,
Reflections that once were floating outside of me.
I'm a mirror
That's half complete,
Filling up with each acceptance.

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The Happy Place

Under the comfort of stars
Surrounded by pitch darkness
And a dense forest.
The green is all black.
The noise is all silence.
No boundaries, no familiarities.
Just a bunch of strangers
Under the comfort of stars
Our hearts beating at a pace
Of a dozen new annecdotes per minute.
Annecdotes that are part of a story,
A stranger's story.
All this, while we rested on rocks,
Hostility, unfamiliarity and horror of darkness,
Our only comfort food.
But, we collectively,
Stared at stars, intently, merrily.
The dark sky, studded with bright stars.
Engulfed our familiar lives, stories.
Someday, somewhere our stories
Will shine bright in that dark sky,
Giving comfort to strangers like us,
Staring at the skies
Filled with bright stars.
And that day, that place,
Will be our happy place.

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Circles & Questions

As our earth is nearing
It's revolution around it's love,
Let us ponder over this:
We are used to thinking in circles.
We are used to repetition.

Think about it:
Every 61 second is just another 1st second.
Every 61 minute is just another 1st minute.
Every 25th hour is just another 1st hour.
Every 8th Day is just another Day 1. 

We are living in the loops.
Repeating the design
Monotony or not, time's still a circle.
Is it time to think otherwise,
Breaking free of these circles.

Can we break free?
Can we straighten this out or do we endure?
Or are milestones reached
Only when we hit a familiar start point?
Or Is being home our ultimate destiny?

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Time.

A mere unfolding.
An unwrapping
Of uncertainty,
Of an uncontrollable
Un-forsee-able.

A mere illusion.
Casting a spell
Of an Undying,
Constantly unearthing,
Gracefully undulating,
roller coaster.

A mere hope.
An un-happening
Of an unintended
Un-innate
Unexpected, unreal
Certainity.

A mere certainity.
an Un-emoting,
Unravelling,
Undressing,
Un- lie-ing
Of Truth.

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Four-Chambered Love

What if I tell you places can be oxymoronic.
You wouldn't believe me.
A heart is beating rapidly
While another has slowed down.
While some blood is being thinned,
There's some other that's clogging walls.
While a soul is highly sedated,
There's another that's near-insomniac.
While a body is still and immovable,
There's another that is restless.
While some prayers turn into laughter,
There are some that are absorbed into tears.
While there is joy in a room,
Sorrow seeps into the next one.
While there's hope for some,
Few others just are completely consumed by fear.
All these contradictions
Existing in harmony.
All these prayers
Bellowing in synchrony.
While this place is completely oxymoronic,
It houses people,
People who cling to a singular thread,
A thread beaded with hope and kindness.
What if I tell you at this little place,
Strangers become family.
As Life marches
Towards it's true friend, Death,
This gigantic place
Cooks the recipe of four-chambered love.

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Hope
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Read Caption.

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Talking to a Pegion - 101
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The Conversation
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The Imprints

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