Quiet disinterest,
Not made explicit—
A piteous fallacy of
Maybe and next times.
Truth shining in eyes,
Let go, not mine.

But a heart, is a heart, is a heart—

Is it Leda or the Swan,
The predator or the prey,
It holds you captive
Yet wails to set you free.

-

Que voulez-vous? Wake up.
See the cinnamon dusted streets like myrtle pollens—
beneath layers of jaded petals.
It reeks— no, smells of lemonade, of cakes, of caramel.
Sniff in the sight, sit, let it seep in ever so slowly — sans senses.
Are you merry? Do you grieve? But who is to know? Not even you.
The lights burned bright yesterday? Or was it today? Was it imagination or a waking dream?
'tween everything and nothing falls the shadow.

Walk on. One. Two. Three.
Walk on. Four. Five. Six. Walk—
Ad infinitum.

-

Here comes the fool, bringing with him all the follies. Ay, he will charge you twopence for hearing a foolish question and sixpence to answer it. Actually, he might ask you to double the tip if given the opportunity to delude your brain with his wisdom. But oh... How can a fool be wise. Nay, I don't believe that no one can play the Fool as well as a Wise. He is just an asinine fellow whose every inch is garbed in motley but for his head. Why, he must be showing off his dexterity with limbs but acknowledging his inability of brain to understand the colours of life. Hah, what more can you expect of him— few slanders that doth delight you in your knowledge of knowing that you aren't him.
Look, here he comes , all pomp and yet monochrome in his fallacies, glissading his way down so that he may add a pence or two in his fortune of the day through his performance. Aye, the performance we all love for who performs the life as well as a fool? Fooling us, delighting us; in our oblivion? He surely knows how to hide behind his dim wits the fact that "it's better to be a witty fool than be a foolish wit".

-

Agriculture: A man-given boon.

Scattered seeds on mud wet,
Getting shade beneath a net.
Sprouts, removing the sheath,
Coming out to take first breath.

Dew drops, washing them,
Sunlight, trespassing them,
Wet Earth nurturing them,
Farmer's hand serving them.

Grown mature, they are ready to cut,
Happy are people though living in hut.
Serving people as their lifeline,
This process enhances with time.

-

I

Cut in Alabaster , engraved with
Atramentous Onyx - splash of
Ink over jade, intrinsic work
By a dying heart, pulsating with
The last few words that linger.

II

Maplewood table, furnished with
A stack of paper and a drying ink-pot,
Nib of the pen getting chastised,
As it chants the final verses
Over the perpetual blankness.

III

Embroidered with fallen petals,
Megaliths- stamps of the dead,
Branded with the label of mortals,
Tears fall not to paint them back alive
But only to wash away the stubborn memories.

That's what death is, isn't it?
Forgetting and being forgotten.

-

Drops. Tear drops? Rain drops?

(Contd. In caption)

-

Moulding a thousand dreams into an empty vessel,
I voyaged to find a blob of happiness;
But naught I found could fill the void
Within that empty vessel of mine.
Shivering, shaking and slightly sobbing,
I continued the journey in hopes of finding-
Finding something intangible so much as
To the touch of Grim Reaper's scythe.
When Going 'round the world
Yielded nothing but a heart full of grief,
When the night grew cold and
It was nigh impossible to sleep-

I sat to cry, by the banks of Nile,
Looking at the Moon with its usual smile.

-

BEAUTY
(Contd. In caption)

-

We are all just songs in the end
If we are lucky!

(Continued in caption...)

-

Sometimes, I do but wonder
If I were to find a place
Safe from the menaces of this little world,
Would thou shelter me in thy giggles
And make my dream of a heaven
Where seraphs sing come true.

No, I expect thee not to shelter me
For thy castles are built of lies
And guarded by serpents that poison my mind.
I lay at the bed of thorns for my blood
May baptise thy sins and immortalise them
In my relics.

I have nowhere to go, my path endeth
At the crossroad where thou
Sheddeth thy last tears.
No grass grows at the patch of the barren land
To comfort the thirsty traveller in me,
So I bury myself under the sand,
For " I'll be safe in the place that thou said was mine ".

-