Pieces of Dark.

My shadow moors me like an anchor,

Spins infinite circles-

Runs me aground.

Ticks the stories off the hurried seconds,

Becomes time itself-

Wrinkles my brow.

Sets the sun to race the horizon,

Drowns it in darkness-

Immures me in itself.

Retrieves a sallow moon from the night,

Dots the sky with stars-

Reminisces dawn.

Burdens me to sift through dreams,

Prowls on a tight leash-

Breaks into a sweat.

Tears future’s drape of ‘morrow,

Scrambles present in a bag-

Mixes it with past.

Silently awaits its ritual immolation,

Quivers against me imperceptibly-

Bleeds pieces of dark.

Marking Time.

The all seeing eye has been replaced

By all telling ones

A mutual supposition exists

In the illicit delight of life

Where the flea market of yearning

Bids in sundry moments

Romancing longing

In kisses clandestine,

For future's paths do backward find

Coming back to waiting time

Time, whose revolving doors

Blur me out, and in

Shadows scurrying in circles

Drawing our sighing reliefs

On tessellated pavements

Where arching shadows become sundials

That singularly trace

The lonesome march of listless skies

And a solitary blind eye

Bright…

Origami

Don’t fold my letters love

The crinkling creases

Opportune opine

And make vagrant fate lines

To wrinkle my passions

Adding strange character

To the lonesome conversations

Before you read; So instead

I’ve brought your favourite scissors

The rusty one that would creak

Its sombre disapproval

Every time we brought its blades together

To make love                  

But by then we had learnt

That scissors better paper better

Than the quaint stains of ink

When it comes to our sort of art

For its consummate ease

To tenderly trace

Each line, shape and letter

And variously spout

Words, images and clatter

Like from a magician’s hat

Making me always

The confetti of your dreams

To fill and set afloat

In the garden of balloons

Where taciturn gravity

Would embrace my element

To whisper gently the translation

Repeating the hope of words long lost

Remembering your existentialist hobby

Of twisting parchments

Into paper boats set sail

Upon stormy rivulets

That soaked in their souls

Disintegrating it to shreds

And swallowing it whole…

Syntax.

i hold the warmth closer

It seems a memory past

That though has done the distance

Yet remembers the kiln

That stoked its embers sweet

Its honey dripping lips

Bidding farewell

That keeps nostalgia still

Bleeding its red art

Sparkling like bits of sand

That now breathe of

Mortar and concrete

Dreams that spent life recalling

How the hungry waves

Had fed at every hour

Every minute, and so on

Because now you realize

That how an echo howls

And keeps the dialogue going

But with itself

For though crashing they are

And coursing as they scream

A faltering drop of blue

Like some grim punctuation

Hanging in space

Inhaling the vacuum;

Exhale.

Blue Blooded

i wash my face in the mirror

And watch in its million drops

Reflections warped to behold

Or another mask Rorschach

The ink lay panting spilt

On white reams untouched

The strands soaking by turns

Immuring obscurity of facts

And out came rushing tumbling

With emptiness the words

Their shells a hollow cocoon

Of dreams that diaphanous were

That glistened in my harsh gaze

Like a rainbow painted bubbles

Pricking the sun.

i watch them drift asunder

In the flickering strands of breeze

That leaves me gasping again

For my claustrophobic reverie

That chokes me bit by bit

To squeeze the remnants of-

A splattered day, a chance meeting

And all those voiceless thoughts

That kept piling in a corner quiet

Because i never knew where

Does solitude of the world seep

To but sprout its tendrils here;

Here where the variegated moss

Of your life en-homes my dungeons

Seeping in its quaint moisture

And draws its hopeless art.

The Colour Red

It shall be the happiness after tomorrow,

Perhaps;

Let off by some sigh, but

The wind here grows only stronger,

And sun’s scattered beams,

Take leaves red and rub their sallow,

So now they must gleam green;

Watching us with orphan eyes,

As we sit suspended together,

Unsure;

If dusk would spill its secret dust,

Or would it be just the two of us,

Our mutual darkness;

And a ceremonious incense,

That just wouldn’t light.

There’s a fire raging below,

Like a red gash from a scimitar;

Bleeding black earth,

Burning the sky,

And filling our caress with tender smoke;

I look up distracted,

And find its careless smudge-

A crescent moon that barely breathes,

A crimson drop incompleting the horizon;

I taste a familiar tinge that drowns,

All the other bleeding senses out,

A drowning vortex of vertigo,

Calls an unfamiliar name to echo;

That, and the many uses,

Of the colour red.

Jabbertalkies

The day’s streaks are getting long,

Motion blur, i am informed

Add to that a certain curve,

That upon itself would turn upon,

And swirling whirls will tumble forth,

To eddies made to greater form,

And rise like tides of a full-ish moon,

Or better still our global warmth,
Thawing life in ice trapped,
Letting pipers escape the gates of dawn,

Who come to me to rue their ruse,

But come to leave and be ever gone,

For trapped in dreams of a dying man,

Life devours, what it does yawn,

It’s rather black this heart of man,

And denial's days are rather long,

A slip down the memory lane

And eternal’s paused the moment wrong.