On certain days,
when the sky smells both of winter and of rain,
I take my heart of clay
and bury it in the mud.
~ the red finds it's way into the dark grey.

When the earth is blessed again
with a pitch black sky and thunderous lullabies;
on such a November night
with eighteen years gone by
he'd have mastered weaving
anatomy with poetry.
And then he'll return with a holocrine artwork
which isn't meant to fall prey to a patron's eye.

-

Translucent's just a blurred transparent
and the nidus of agony lies in our chaos strewn minds,
leeching onto a lovelorn listlessness.

On a rainy summer afternoon,
when you run out of words,
fall for a someone with a freckle on the iris.
Remember, you can always let go.

But if you yearn for the same love
and see their face in the heavens above;
if you try hard to get away, but always end up
writing a piece about them on the worst of days,
stay.

Even if it means you'll go to your grave alone,
even if it means you've ceased to be yourself,
even if it means nothing to anyone but you,
stay.
Stay because they left.
Stay; incase they lose their way
to some sugar coated treachery
and come back to spend evenings with you,
while you smile at their bellyache.

-

I wonder why you are so sad.
Is it the world or is it your dead dad?
Why is it that you cringe at the slightest show of affection?
Why is it that you loathe compassion? I can see you trapped in those snowcapped sands of time. I know that rescuing you, won't make you mine. But I'll try.

I'll try because I'm trapped too.
I saw your intestines being shot and your scribbled letters being scratched out. I think I know why your words don't rhyme anymore.
I can't promise you light.
I haven't seen any.
Wait till daybreak and I'll merge your verses with mine.

-

truth's offensive, so is a raw emotion.
couldn't ever break your name into syllables.
loss of my sinner's sanctum, has rendered me a little mad.
last night i heard you singing, with constantly changing notes. something has caused me to try to be a second you.

i don't follow conventions;
they rebel against my rebellion.
murdered the eleventh votary;
the emergence of my vulpine self.

they pour over me,
barrels brimming with a pastel melancholy
and ask me why i stopped smiling.
i wonder if they would ever blame you; the rogue, who shot the Cupid to introduce me to the captive blues.

-

he was a calamity;
not the natural kind -
everytime he came to my mind, a february was triggerred inside me. he would keep stabbing me with a pencil. a blood sucking butterfly. he didn't like using capital letters when he wrote. a boy; an overgrown child- pushing past all conventions of an unknown varsity.

he loved assigning punctuations to people.
he had assigned to me, a semicolon.
when April arrived, he removed the full stop from it.
and then i was but a comma at the end of a sentence.
a grammatical error.

-

It wasn't about a you and a me anymore.
All of a sudden everything was about
the parallel universe that I had been embedding
in my head through these years.
There, things are always better and
there I don't give a shit about people.
That's where I wanna be now and
that's where I've gotta be. I'll be losing a lot on my way
as I fight my way through the lightyears but at the end it'll be worth it. 'cause those who've gotta stay, will be there waiting for me at the finishing line. I'll get there and I know it.

-

and you'll come across a new morning someday. you'll swirl around in your bedroom and fall back on your bed over the crinkled pastel bedsheets, chuckling hard. you'll let that sunshine in; through those laced curtains. maybe with someone who soothes your soul, or maybe alone; it won't matter anymore. all the people that you'd have ever loved, will just be stories or verses; paintings maybe., stacked in bookshelves that you had always wanted to have. you'll sing to a tune, long forgotten, holding a clock and watching it tick backwards, with your reflection in the mirror. you'll laugh at your teen self and at the fact that teen means trouble. someday, you'll make it through.

-

he gazed so long,
that his eyes were dazzled.
he tried to get up.
he could not.
he remained cheerful.
he had been wounded.
"i am well,
but i do not feel very strong", he said.

he bled so profusely that he died.

i liked him.
he was dangerous -
a threat to this pathetic world.
i liked him, i think i did.

-

vernalisation of his human soul,
rendered him a poet, too cold.
words measured up, abscission of facts,
rhymed into verses and metaphors bold.
an itch in the white of the eye;
leaves on fire, unrolled
fell into the abysmal pit
of his sadistic desires.

the others and the girl (who's pedophile uncle cried at her funeral),
grasping his resentments
morphosed into his redemption
under the December moon.
he left her stranded
under it's silvery shoon.

her existence so insignificant,
he hardly ever considered;
but now it isn't anymore
about what opinion he holds of her.
you'll see her emerging
out of the grey winter smog,
out of the blinding haze
that tore her senses apart,
out of love and
out of the cemetery where
every epitaph was a poetry about him.

-

you know it's winter
when people return home
on dark evenings,
scampering through the streets
amidst the naked but snow-clad trees;
when you hear muffled laughter
finding it's way to your ears,
while you walk alone
to an empty house.

-