dusty space on the window sill
on the fluid view to the way long fields,
the sun rises and falls to death
to deny me the night I long to have.
Dreams do reveal in glorious form
lucid as they might be, harmless and true.
The day I had today shed me a trace of light
and what a day to shadow the wise old glow.
A flutter of reverberating tone woke me up,
a tune from the eastward window blowing low.
T’was the crude spout of the albino pigeon
jealous on her kin who never let her swing
on the forbidden wire under the bearing sunshade.
Rewinding few hours on my dazed morning head
I knew the universe is playing himself, corny and dead.
The remains of my dream stroke my being hard
and there was I with cold sweaty palm on my thigh.
Reeled back to the momentary lapse of consciousness
just to mid range that hovers between slumber and wake.
I had dreamed of a pigeon grey and white.
not the usual shit spewing grey and black.
He had asked me to wake up forever then
to make me contemplate the vastness
of such an empty and morbid life.
He asked me to fly, he asked me to jump
but he didn’t stay to teach me how.
I sighed for myself on my miserable state
and there I heard the ugly groan of the pigeon again.
There he was in a cage he never knew existed
on the window sill, by the damp steel pane.
a dying wish to be a ghat-man.
To breathe in the air of thousand meters high,
to know the denseness of my tessellated self.
As hairpin curves lead way to foresee shadows of heaven
that God had guiltily retained for men of passion to see.
We could measure the heights
where mists and misfits dance
but we could never understand
the soulful purpose of the same.
We could hear the weary whistle
of the ever-passing wind-
telling secrets of yesterday
that died in unadulterated vain.
A longing to go out of breath on each step,
a dream to be the warmth between
the sweater and the fabric of the shirt.
A desire to be in the air of
three different damp smoke,
one of the cigarette’s,
one of the tea’s and
one from my own breath-
owing to the cold dark soul.
See when I fit there, I’d exist as a whole.
A part of mine that makes me none
would never be there anymore.
I’d shed my curious dead-drop glance
on the hanging drops of dew that cling on
to the green of the leaves with hopes so few-
as though wishing for a vile storm to pass.
Reflecting the muck on the surface,
the clinging dew drop survives and sways.
And right then I’d tether the drop to my finger tip-
just with a graceful touch like a painter
finishing his lady’s face with a freckle.
The dew would embrace the reach of my tip
and I’d walk it through the storm
with the other hand on my hip.
How many more sleepless nights?
Breathless I have really become
and my dreams no longer remain.
Crazy, I don’t remember any
brief clues of faces or moments.
It is hard to wake up every morning
realizing that I have turned a blind eye to
a very different world out there.
Out there, there could be love
where we could hold hands
and the lines on our palms fit
each others’ so perfectly.
Out there, there could be no identities
where we could be who we really are.
No judgments thrown, no one to hassle and frown.
Out there, there could be timeless peace.
No bombs hurled, and fleshes shredded
are only from lapse of heartbreaks,
seeking the scent and flavor of the ones departed.
But guess what? Once you stick your head out of
that normative sleep, reaching from unfathomable
distances down. A depth too far, where gravity lacks,
and self-inflicted imaginary misery racks.
To figure this out, I ruefully lost my sleep
and guess who turned out to be the horrendous freak?
I am glad that it was finally me. Real, rude and as human as one could be.
The end, the beginning and the concealed secrets
of dreams are ghastly reminders of our depth and fears.
The dark and eerie gloom of the dawn
made a fitting presence, with the sweat on his palms.
He stared across the camouflaged air
to catch a glimpse of the wolf’s despair.
The ravening soul’s utterly disregarded salvation
was etched on the rocks he dragged his prey by.
The prey-the rabbit wheezing out a whistle of its breath
had its salvation etched on the teeth of the savage holding its neck.
Blood and lust for hunger survived somehow
to reveal the subtle truth of deliverance from the God’s sins.
Being an illusive complex of web built to capture the weak and the weary,
the intricate patterns of which turned out to be dark, vile and scary.
The dreamer-the listener heard the decibels of howl and
assumed it to be the cry of hunger from the wolf’s fluted wind pipe.
but only the last few breaths of the rabbit knew
that the howl was a disguise of a delicately let out burp.
The dreamer woke up with a sweaty palm
his eyes misty and unclear with a veil of tear.
The end, the beginning and the concealed secrets
of dreams are ghastly reminders of his depth and fears.
The madness to rush in and fade out
is a state of being we love to be.
Desire, a drive to want everything and all
with a conscious lucidity of needing nothing at all.
Holding onto a breakable string
greedy yet scared of the tensile rupture.
Judging only the weakness of the hitch
and ignoring the weight of the doubts we carry.
Tipped over in few of the many walks of lives
we went on in search of answers and lies.
The dreadful journey to nowhere to seek
the significant parts of our soul were weak.
A messy mountain of heap filling our vulnerable hearts
held the slippery suicide points of our destined parts.
Hang on warriors, hang on to the rope
cling on to the farce promises of hope.
When we leave that gentle grasp to death
we would cherish the fall with all our breath.
The madness to rush in and fade out is strong
when there are million other lives to do it with us along.
Light of the evening summoned itself down
with the shimmer of bluish and pink sky scattered above.
Clouds of white fighting the bright tides of ocean,
moon hiding behind as the shy crabs in the shore.
Selfishly cleaned cent of beach land in the stretch
poets making a cozy circle with listeners up close.
Black boxes of amps making sweet and feeble thunderous sound
when the poets hit them twice before they shed words on the ground.
Twinkle and sparkle of the artificial lamps married the space
where the glow of unsung souls expressed their songs in grace.
Old, young and the depressed hearts
got together and showed their naked parts.
Parts that make them an irrelevant yet beautiful part of the whole
like the dead stars that rage today and show off the spirit of a whore.
Bottled egos romanced the essence of love,
a love for expressing the gentleness of absent hate.
Each of their voices told a part of their story
and hid the remnants between the pores of ocean mud.
Everyday the poet cries and everyday his stocked up heart dies.
He was the poem that wanted to seek the touch of the lives as we speak.
Settling down on the chaos of life,
he survived in the elixir of his humor and pride.
He was wrong and stupid in the best of his days,
his wealth and breath hung up on his euphoric craze.
Pushing up the rod and button of steel,
he opened the umbrella to cease the feel.
The feel of the graceful falling rain,
he doubt that his touch might inflict the drops some pain.
Grieving about the heartless souls
that wanders by the edge of holes.
Holes drawing and sucking the essence of him
he wasn’t sure of his place and his tear glands filled up to brim.
All that he has seen and all that he has ever been
was like pure drops of the storm clinging on the clothe-line stream.
A shake and a gust was all it would take
to unsettle the nerves and to make the fall partake.
He swallowed the rest of his doubts and fears,
he pulled back the rod to bring the fabric of the umbrella close and near.
With the rumbling clouds spilled on the light dark of the day
he thought of words that his true self wanted to say.
He looked up with his eyes drowsy and closed,
million droplets still falling to give him a dose.
And all it took was the chill of the air and
he figured the purpose he was due to serve with flair.