Tag: love

The I in Why?

I do not desire
To lie naked in a rattrap life
And lubricate my verse with victorian words;
Filled with awe inspiring acts
Led by mundane lust
Of Angels and Men alike
Nor do deep desires murder me
Nerve by nerve
Peeling away my eggshell skin
To illuminate the onion within;
A coiled rainbow, boiled white
Neither am I a shadow
Fallen far from crowded feet
Awaiting on indifferent paths
For a heavenly retreat
If at all I were to bare myself and be
One thing that should suffice how I see
Myself, in this crystal world
Of self reflection and askewed insight
I would be a thoughtful statue
Sitting alone in a far off land
With infinity in my head
And nothing in my hand

Thinking of You

Thoughts of you 
A wounded prism
Bleeding rainbow blood 
From skin the colour of acrylic 
Water upon water
Wet upon wet 
(Random noise; 
My pseudo poetry,
Commas and semicolons limping across the verses
In a desolate frequency 
Like an empty road echoing;
The silhouettes of silent wheels 
The smell of burnt rubber 
And the touch of gasoline)
I long to stare at your face that stands stark against the sky
A newborn moon; unblemished 
Rolling upon tethered horizons
Like a dime in the dark

O how I ache to be in your arms now
To be your ice and your fire
Your utter despair and open desire 
I wish I could hold you
Like ink in my paper palm
Like an unformed word
Like a fleeting thought 
I wish I could know how you see me
Am I an anchor that keeps you calm
Or wings that sets you free?
I know I heal as an afterthought 
And you are careful in remembrance 
And although we have met few times
These moments that pass
This liquid life
Is reshaped by our every touch
For the fire that burns us feels the same
Today, tomorrow, after an eternity again

I remember being
Your dream
When you were wide awake
A flower trapped within sunshine 
And I know I am not destiny’s choice
For my voice 
That dark tobacco of my baritone
Is neither honey nor nectar 
And my eyes that reach out
Through the veiled carcass of some velveteen night
Belongs to shadow and to spectre 
But love
Through the shards of slow time
That ebbed our feet away for many days
Now we walk
With our two hearts disguised as one

My Woman


He carried a corpse on his shoulder 
A straw man made of stone
And walked the nowhere path
A footstep in a crowd; alone
He had feathers on his broken back
Which wept on silent nights
And he wished for a shooting star
Having never had one in sight
The man was armed with silence 
And buried tears in each eye
Had no heart of which to speak of 
And dared not ask why
So he searched his own shadow 
That wet the mosaic floor 
And wondered if his life
Even mattered anymore
For he was a mortal man
Who died in his own dreams
And come night only his pillow
Answered back his screams
He thought of leaving it all
And be dust and be free
He thought of casting his anchor
In the middle of the barren sea
For him the changing world
Was a wave that ever repeats
And he questioned unto the chaos
Why do I rhyme when nothing fits?

Her face was a prison of prisms 
Her eyes twin melodies of mind
Her skin shone like vanishing velvet 
Her kiss was one of a kind
But she was no fabled princess 
Wandering lost at his open door
Nor was she a cast away goddess 
He had once prayed to before
She was a woman in making
And held her heart in her own hand
She knew the world as her oyster 
And she a pearl in the prophetic sand
She saw the world with its visage brimming
With light bulbs and bright lies 
So she searched for the one who stood 
With bruises like midnight skies 
He was a naked man
Unclothed; without a name
Who counted a single star
Thinking that all were same
To her he was a child unfed
Left to roam as a newborn in wild
Once without a home
Through fate utterly exiled 

He saw her hand in the ocean
And the world closed around his eyes
As he drowned in the water that whispered 
Breathe now or the dream dies
He felt her fingers upon his shoulder
And he answered back in kind
Till their lips sealed shut a secret 
Which no soul could ever find
And they danced in the depths like dolphins 
Two kindred hearts as one
Who wished so much for the stars
That they grew their own sun
So that when the leaves now rustle
And the colours do not make sense
They can watch the silence get slower
And the rainbow go back in rain

Curtain Call

Image by Ahmed Nishant @unsplash

I am,
The face you never see,
On posters and billboards,
Half starved, naked,
Beyond beautiful, to be
Served on a silver platter,
For you to touch, twist and take,
Morsel after morsel.

I am,
The laughter you never hear,
Stirring lives,
Rubbed together in plastic embrace,
Made alive in the objectionable agony
In the chimera of chemicals
Praised at pawn shops
By asthmatic Archdiocese
To fall, to drip,
Lip by lip
Throat by sore throat
Through hollow chests
And wasted waists
Of fools painting tears
Upon torn faces.

I am,
The play you never see,
On streets below your tinted windows,
Staged for the world to witness,
For free, though
None stays to admire,
Too paltry, they say, too plain,
Too painful, coarse and vain,
This drama,
That reminds us of our own lives.

I am,
The speeches you never give,
From proud pedestals, and altars,
Like a speck of spit,
Luring the sea of men,
With words; carved and honed,
Too bright for us,
Of clouded eyes,
To warm these hearths of our own.

I am,
The truth you never know,
From beyond your walls,
And the sanctum of your own asylum
Where you pray
To the earthworms armed with earthquakes
To the dead; dead from too much death
To leper’s liberty
To chronic charity
Never to arise
From the ashes
Or seen through the uncertain curtains
Of your marble eyelashes.

I am,
Everything that makes
Nothing possible.

Diaspora

I have seen the diaspora,
Seen it’s bulbous head set against Saturn’s sky,
Felt it’s pulse,
Dreaming of chalk and charcoal,
Seen it’s veins, deeper nerves,
Coursing through promises
Like an undulating snake.

Men revise,
Their adolescent mournings, teenage dreams made of,
Pink flesh laid to rest,
Against the grain of this world.
A world long forgotten by the habit of forgetting,
The shell of mirror,
Slow as sinking stone,
For lives lived, living,
With unpolluted prose,
Precise, pragmatic.

I have seen the diaspora,
The laughter of death,
That parallel passage,
Guided by fate.

The fault never lied with dark,
To light must fall the blame,
For showing that of all,
None are truly the same.

Half the pleasure,
Lies in having nothing,
And losing it all.

Here in shaped stillness,
I ache for a shattering.

Until I am no more.

Now I am no more.