Her Pretty Sky

Witnessing the hues of orange and yellow splattered with the different blobs of grey, she took a sharp breath marveling over the sky. She sidled closer to me. With my piqued interest in her, I faltered a few steps in my mind. 'I'm witnessing such a pretty sky after so long, isn't it so pretty?' she had exclaimed. Nervously, unable to even look at her, I had whispered a hushed, cracked, 'Yes' wondering, questioning her gaze. Wishing me a great day, she went away after tugging at my heart. The unexpected short conversation, her charming vibes lingering around, and her pretty sky - all beckoned me into this alluring state. Every day, I still yearn for another chance encounter with her as I keep on walking down the same streets. Another conversation, this time just a bit longer. And this mere hope of things rolling over and into the gulf of good times.

-

The Woman in the Painting

It was a painting Allie painted; a painting that lived under the moonlight, breathing into the nights. The woman used to wake up at nights, breathing in Allie's dreams. In indiscernible amounts, the painting started changing every morning resembling Allie's subconscious mind progressively. Unbeknownst to Allie, the woman kept breathing in Allie's dreams, thus adding time to her life and living through the days. Whereas, Allie started sleeping longer increasingly, into the days.
That day, the painting finally completed resembled Allie's subconscious mind as Allie faded into non-existence, slipping away; her life now being lived by the woman in the painting.

-

Will

surviving
amidst
the chaos,
the questions
flowing
raging though
bricks

surviving
the not so
surviving
medium

surviving
amidst
the rolling will's
from the
tongues
and all
cluttered within

-

दस्तक दी है चौखटों पर कई आहटों ने
सिलसिला ये सुना है सालों से बिना राहतों के

फूलों की चादर बिछाई तो है पथ पर, ऐ फ़रियादी
ग़ारत-गर की आंखों में फिर भी खटकती हैं बेबुनियादी

-

I want to write about you
but I'm afraid you'll leave as soon as I do

I want to write about your absence
shedding away all pretense we hold up

I want to write to relive, revive
your love, alas, settling into else's foyer

As I stand on the cliff wrapped in bubble
writing about you, for you to leave as soon as I end

-

Pieces

little fire balls
housed between freezing folds
like our hearts, stuck far

-

He Drew Lines

His palm morphed
from bare minimum to opposite
as he drew lines on his palm
like it was a canvas
with my name sitting there
just on the lines
akin to just hanging there

He drew lines
to mark my presence in his mind
my presence in his life
uttering words heavy enough
to weigh down my thoughts over thought
into nullity

He drew them over and over
for they kept fading like his words
for he never drew them
like he meant them
and now, they lie jumbled
with my thoughts tied by them
hanging just over the pit of nullity

-

A Tale of No Returns

The same old day parrots in
Brought in when my feet are stuck
And I plop down all spent through
Day avoiding hints to chuck

Voices within feel unheard
As your blurred photo hangs here
A momentary wish to talk
Opening locks so you hear

I lookout for your traces
But this, even your still knows
Your slitting, nicely fit tale
Of no returns in my prose

Crushing the last Iris now
I allow my hope to die
Yet still hold the flakes hoping
You'll come in spring with blue sky

-

पाँच लोग

भोर विभोर,
ज़हन में एक सौदा लिए उठे।
रात की परछाई सी,
दहलीज़ पर चार लोग दिखे॥

वहम का चोला ओढ़े,
भरी महफ़िल में जा बैठे।
जिव्हा पे हर बात थी सजी,
पर हर बात पर छलकते चार लोग दिखे॥

डर के मैदान पर दौड़ते हुए,
सुकून की हवा के लिए भटके।
हर एक रूप में,
अनेकों रूप में, चार लोग दिखे॥

घर किए सौदा और डर के साथ चले,
बिना लिए चार लोगों को।
पर हवाओं में आज भी यह गुफ़्तगू है-
उस डर में बसे उन्हें चार लोग दिखे॥

-

Two paintings

Imaginative forces borrowed on a lease
The palette dipped in hollows, planes and combinations mimicking
The strokes splashed from arms with a heart of others
Creating a painting that looks like these words trying to pull adjectives but failing miserably
Brought to life with a dead soul by its creator
As if meeting a dead end to their journey of searching for a beauty better than
The painting lies in the store with another made out of a soul, still alive on a lease
The two paintings by the same creator
Leaving the place, they wandered, living in their own head, dropping all the wooden valuables on the way
The two paintings still lurk somewhere waiting for its creator

-