I look out of the mirror
looking into the mirror staring at me.
But I only see images on both sides,
I cannot find my soul
at either end
there are hollow marrowless bones, sponge stuffed rag dolls,
they are not me.
That child at heart, god at soul
moulted into a reflection.
I’m just a clone, an impression
not me anymore,
I’m not real.
A summer’s sun bakes my lawn golden
spreads brown icing of burnt leaves,
from the trees dries up the wind
which laps up puddles of sweat,
rivers of salt run amok.
Mosquitoes host a musicale
over supine limbs, smelling blood
drool, puncture green swollen veins
go on a jag.
Anopheles waits with a pruned sting,
the fever with a shiver is common.
I hop from A.C to A.C, survive,
homeless myriads have learnt well
to savour heat and digest diseases.
Microwaved roads and breezes on the boil
spew heat like Chinese dragons
scorch flesh, raise vapours of blood.
Poetry’s an avaricious mistress
always in want of more
from me and mine.
I chisel words, sharpen sentences
deepen thoughts, clarify images,
loosing [good] adjectives,
add()a synonym and a period(.)
The parenthesized creation
from me and mine.
You lay in memory’s junk yard with
lessons kept aside for reference,
visions of people pushed in a corner,
desires decayed and other stuff.
All else is in a stupor
you’re awake with a wanderlust.
Eyes drizzle, threaten to pour
you must have made it to the heart
and scraped scabs off healing wounds.
An ache oozes and spreads its contagion
I begin to fall sick with love again.
Hope rises and trembles
like rain drops on leaf tips
I wipe it, bury you in garbage again.
Only a few grains of time in an hourglass
and a bit of unlived life
That which died
weighs heavily upon the earth.
A handful of golden grains
that I clutch in my palm
and a few breaths of fresh air
in carbon coated lungs
before the hourglass is empty
and my hands vacant.
I think of the cool solace
beneath the sun-backed branches
the mute fidelity
of my friend on the leash
the sickly servant
who cooked and cleaned without complain.
All they had was but half an hourglass full
and even that they poured into my palm.
Now I have enough to give, before my hands are vacant.
I cannot move
footprints besiege me.
I’m moved by memories.
lie, sunken in low beds
their harvest trickling
down my eyes.
Love unfriended, loitered
looking here and there
The wasted waiting,
a solitary autumn leaf,
I’m so woefully scattered
pieces of me lie everywhere.
Scavengers prey and rejoice all day
but no one seems to care.
That small piece upon the hill
with a big dream, is dead.
I bury it under a lonely tree
and bravely move ahead.
Some of me I gave to you.
It was my very best.
I hoped that you would hold it
but even that you laid to rest.
A few that I could gather,
are bloodless bits of rotted flesh.
I feed them to the scavengers myself
for its all over now, the end.
Life moves on…
like destarched autumn leaves.
lie trampled in memory lanes
A whispered requiem, a hasty tear,
my only sympathies
lest I loose pace as life moves on…
I stoop to hand-pick tomorrows
tomorrows with dreams, hopes and wishes.
Tenderly I gather all,
rosiest dreams, hopes and wishes.
With adding years I’m wiser now?
Life moves on…
Solitary, I stroll,
among weeds in memory lanes
smothered, undreamt, unwished moments all.
beneath denuded days
in grazed memory gardens,
is that all I had reaped?
Unblossomed todays and variegated yesterdays.
to sow and reap and re-live all
But life moves on…
Your frozen smile,
inside the icy steel photo frame.
Your frozen vows,
scattered in letters smeared with coagulated ink.
Your laughter’s frozen,
in echoes, ringing in my ears.
Your love is frozen,
in my leaden heart, inside the bony cage.
My eyes frozen,
upon the stony path that carried you away.
These few frozen memories,
the only legacies of a congealing life.
Suddenly days have become
just stretches of nothingness,
between dawn and dusk.
that I keep filling
with life breaths.
I hold their headless necks
and look inside.
An eerie emptiness reaches the eyes.
A heap of numbed life force
lies at the other end,
just wasting away.
The dark and empty insides
echo with deafening silences,
much to express, nothing to say.
These dark, dead, empty days,
I keep throwing away,
day after day,
till some day
when there’s naught.