Death owns a haunting melody, resonating with the rhythm of life; and one when attune to this cosmic frequency, life and death turn out to be the opening and closing notes of a fleeting sonata.

-

I sit and stare
at a blank sheet of paper
for hours long ;
drawing parallels
of the blankness and the emptiness,
both on the outside and within;
The soul's empty space
and the blankness of the paper,
both yearning an imagery;

As I place my empty palm
on the barren white vastness,
a flicker breathes life
and emotions unfurl;
the emptiness within finds its surge;
filling the blankness with colours of life;
our voices, mate, and emptiness fade!

-

She: Oh, so you have written today !

He: Yeah,
I do give it a try every day;
but it's just that, today my thoughts decided to rebel against the ego.

-

Silence

Swallowing the silence in a dark deserted vaccum;
morsels of words I'm gathering,
in crumbs, fragments, and shards;
Pottering them in my mind,
into various shapes, they cud be moulded;
Perhaps into a walking stick,
for the long lost steadiness and progress;
Or a glider, to soar from this entrenched opinionated abyss;
Or may it be an epitaph, for my long awaited grave;
How about a mighty hammer instead ?
For a reckoning force to shatter
the walls of this long drought of silence.

-

Like a puppeteer, I pulled the strings on words and made them dance to my tunes. I thought of crafting tales, being various characters.

But now,
in silent dismay, I watch
the damn things cling
being my persona,
which refuses to be
anyone else, other than me.

-

amidst the remanants
of faded happinesses,
an unknown grief
(unseen & unspoken)
has sustained my breath;

hinting all the while
of being alive...!

-

Somewhere between money power and corrupted existence, cinema had lost its artistic dynamics. Star value took over characters, storytelling overshadowed by the collection politics; where money politics and profit dictated what we consumed; ART constantly was burried under desultory narration... until this !

-

Among words, I seek my refuge,
Where I conceal my scars;
No matter how hard i try,
they never but fade away;

Forcefully, ever if I try to forget them;
my thoughts in return,
like needles they pierce, bleed me forever;
In blues they haunt, those damned things
— my scars!

-

In the quiet caverns of my mind,
echoes of my
once vibrant writing self linger,
yearning to dance
all over again,
upon the blank canvas of a page.

I miss my self
— my writing self.

-

Every gentle touch
of my thoughts
sliding in as words,
flashes imprints
of intimate love;
of heR defeaning moans
and the silences thereafter;
as if it whispers
an ancient love,
retold !

-