Thursday, February 18, 2010
Among the woods of my neighbourhood, I stand to shed my leaves
Like moments drowned in wine, smoking away the past.
Me, my friend and a heart I love all will quench my thirst
Not to let me grow bold and brave but to water my nostalgia
But I am lost, in the search for warmth, in the search for smile.
Too many desires I have fulfilled, too many lives I have lived
Today this hour I wish for one hour more of my favorite emotions
One hour more of the time we smiled, of the time we grieved.
My soul, my fellows, the men I owe I here to admire me one last time
On my road to freedom, of the heat, the rain and the cold, I would dream
That one night, by the roadside, I am relishing with them the words I lost.
And the day next I will wait for the spring like an angel wearing green
Infant twigs will sooth my heart, remind me the autumn cold and blue
But the road ahead is too long to sit and talk, too short for a silent walk.
Monday, February 15, 2010
In the moist breathe;
Through the stifled throat
As beads of fear
Shroud the craggy lines of fate.
The netted beams of the moon,
Through the monsoon clouds
And the reeky night; they
Glimmer on the murky puddles
In the backyard.
The last drops of oil
Feed the wick; the flame
Flutters in the icy breeze.
A trickle down her cheek,
As the knells croon …
The last grain of time drops.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Another dry day in Pilani.
Another dawn, shrouded
By the misty moist.
It is still dark.
And all are asleep. Only I sit,
Gazing blankly at a moon
That belonged to some other dawn.
The sun isn't up yet,
It all seems familiar,
Yet, not quite.
I am unmindfully wondering,
Of someone sitting far away,
Maybe thinking, maybe not,
Maybe just blissfully asleep,
Maybe planning to spend the day
Awake with excitement.
It isn't a pleasant thought.
Today seems so empty,
All around seems a void,
Seemingly having cleared space
And waiting for someone.
I haven't been cured yet.
Maybe I’m just incurable,
Yet it's not the same.
Maybe I have just grown up.
The same excitement hasn't remained, just
The moist joy
Of gazing blankly at the morning moon.