Who is here to stay with me?
To swallow my thoughts for real and free.
Who is here to reach for my dreams?
To weave the dull night sky with stars to see.
Who is here to unfold my magic in words?
To read between lines of stories
from my thousand nether worlds.
Who is here to rest under my shade?
Whose smell should I expect to fade?
But I warn you now that my fire would carelessly drown
under the weight of joy another soul has stole and shown.
My dreams would wither, my words would die.
Yet in my thousand nether worlds, I never would have lied.
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.
His little dirty foot,
on the weed and shrub infested land.
Away from home and
into the woods, his heart willfully ran.
He lost something against
the awful winds of change.
He lost something that he kept
close by his chest on his walk today.
A bond he had, unlawful yet just.
Bonded still, he blew his time thus.
Fate played an awful game today
and that tether of spool-spit split
and flew very far away.
Bleeding tiny fingers
and unconscious guilt
threw his heartbeat out
and over through his ribcage
until senses fell apart.
Evaporated tears, arid lips
and the broken heart
thus conspired him to tread
into the maze of suburban woods.
He wandered through to
the other side where no
friends, enemies or traitors reside.
Looking for traces of the one he lost
through canopies of fallen trees
he drowned into, away from the city.
Away from all the noises that
null the chirp of a songbird
and disturb the secret murmer of the clouds.
Now, a buzz he heard
one of those shuffling kind.
It might be the one he lost
and longing wholly to find.
There he found it, stuck on an
insignificant branch of a tree-
clueless as the boy standing
just 5 feet away, gazing upward.
The kite he lost was still flying around
shuffling the air, going round and round.
Content and joyous with the dance it made,
the little boy waved goodbye to his lost old friend.
those intentional fragments
of unevenness- hollow in form,
they don’t house excuses
and petty probable reasons.
They are quite meant to be
at those odd fabricated spaces.
Some clearly damp enough
to remind me of my woeful perspiration.
Symbols of rampant disorder.
A disdain to the substance of norm.
Rebellious by nature- the self
seeming to be lethargic- thus the cause.
I pity the long and tidy
plainness of the glorious herd,
whose assumptions of standards
are seldom put through consciously and heard.
For they never know how comfortable they would feel
to wear a wrinkled shirt- un-ironed, messy and real.