Saturday, 29 September 2012


Life a mere wandering night, the spirit a dream in its flight,
Yearning its sole polestar, desolation its only moonlight,
Afraid of the world of being, running away from baring all,
Once stumbled upon me and, since I ruth  my own sight

Wherefrom does this dream come, where does it go?
What crop is reaped from it, what seed does it sow?
What sun illuminates its way through the darkness of night?
Its reach is as high as sky, its incidence like me hanging so low.

What void provides me with the endless streams of thought?
On what evanescent surface is this etheric message wrought
Why this confluence of ours hidden in absolute relativity?
Where do we actually merge, where do we virtually part?

You greed to see me prosper, but I cannot wish away my grief,
Won't let myself flourish with guilt, will rather let you be the thief,
For the petal's unmindful devotion, to spring-flowers taught me,
Nothing is worth the flight of freedom enjoyed by an autumn leaf

You try to fix me with perpetuity; I tend to span your limits,
I fail and fall anyway, but you refuse to take its credits,
Both of us in an eternal impasse, invincible in our own right,
You smugly a unique mismatch, I meekly among myriad misfits.

The morbidity, which nestles and feeds this recurring grind
Does it seduce me from the front or persuade me from behind?
For ages, I dreamt of acquittal from the limits of this hindsight,
Which firmly guards me in the ultimate prison known as mind.

Yet the peril that put me in the crisis of the judgment,
I traversed its cage to find the liberty from its internment,
Bowed my head in submission to the calls of dissolution,
Only to find myself voided in the enormity of this tiny moment.

Behold, when I look at this pale innocent face of the guilt,
My perception is littered, eclipsed, abnegated up to the hilt.
I lie destroyed in the qualms of my own seething indifference,
No succor, no repose, bequeathed a belief , a doubt and a jilt

Outrage in the bubble of absence, and a distilled drop of pain,
Asked to be foils delight, and revel in the carouse of disdain,
One blind in sight, one with no insight, pity the visions galore,
Chagrin it feels, that being is just divine a teardrop, wept in vain.

All if only,would I resist, witnessing from the blind edge of lies,
In a fit of infantile daze, a restive gaze & a pair of tranquil eyes,
Unknown, unfelt hitherto, of depths of doubt, so dire a treat rose,
A Sigh gagged, while making love, to a sky moaning all the whys.

Monday, 17 September 2012

The Naked Veil...!

The burden of forgetfulness on memory

is like saddling the lightness of one's own crumbling.

As unworried & clueless as the residuum of a loss,

The smoke of pain departs from the ashen ailings

And as the worried, unassuming autumn leaf,

Rests on this heap, softly burning, silently fanning,

Nay an edge of difference, nor one of a concurrence,

Reliving the death unawares, like a perpetual flickering

Mirror unto mirror, the continuum of memorials,

A drudge for the deprivation, a salvage so confounding,

That these eyes of longing, in search of blank visions,

May stumble upon blind light, darkness, soul of all findings.

Allaying this ashen heap & smouldering autumn leaves,

Of a heart that doesn't waive, the eyes loyally dreaming,

The unmapped haphazard patch of this cosmic rhapsody,

Pathfinder to lost wayfarers, journey the only homecoming,

The veil of a selfsame projection, night-sky an empty craving.

Dead love, a beautiful loss, the beautiful death of a lovely loss.