• Moon and the Writer •

The thing about
Moon and the Writer
is that when one writes,
the other one reflects.
Both has a dark
side to hide.
Both goes through
emptiness to feel
full again.

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To all the strong women and strong men,
Not behind,not ahead, not below, not above, no superior, no inferior,
but EQUAL.
(Read Caption)

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Intransigent in the choice of soul and entangled plexus,
Between fundamental rights and duties, subjugated to stark,
Returning to bright scarlet shaded Constitution, of warriors, freed nation,
Blotched with ivory in pristine aura, We are leaders,
Embedded in crescent motifs in yellow and peach toil of freedom.

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Walking ahead, scourging thy path of harrow,
Diluting the pain, in the path of life,
Where one lost to thrive, other to revive,
In the sutures of torment, masking thy fears,
Putting every fragment together, walk ahead on path of life.

Don't think micro, thy major is yet to come,
Crossing the street, overcoming thy hurdles,
In every singular event, don't just inhale,
Live to prevail, gathering courage, gathering strength,
Walking ahead, scourging thy path of harrow.

What happens, will happen, that too for a reason,
In thy path of life, keep hope, to distribute hope,
Even closed doors open, beauty of life unfolds,
If dark clouds cover your sky, it will clear too, just walk ahead,
Diluting the pain, in thy path of life.

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Rhythms of coffee beans

-

She looks at those fallen leaves,
Of autumn, fallen to querencia
Of ground, of new home,
Meandering on a rugged, bumpy road,
Like her, dumped to an unknown,
Melancholic life, of new home,
Rather, a new kitchen - her new home,
Splinters of anger, artistically scripted,
Into the brown matters of atoms,
She weave her heart in the sweaters,
She make for her grandson,
Breathing ataxy of helpless,
She puts it around her grandson's body,
To check the size, forgetting
all her troubles.
That kitchen has charged her dowry to let in,
To the unknown dubeity of ischaemia,
To the flip side of desolation, that
her tempest of breathes served her,
Potion never, poison forever,
Beneath the facade of Toska,
Atrocity that she has existed with,
Stripping sheds of her identity,
She lost herself in kitchen,
Patriarchal blessings of society, where
Females are smeared with dark blotches,
She is not supposed to be angry,
Away from agony,
She drapes herself in phlegmatic saree,
Chosen by stereotypical society.
For she is too young to make her own choices.

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//Full piece in caption//

-

Recreated the song
*ON MY WAY*

-

Why rose?
Why not sunflower?
Why moon?
Why not meteoroids?
Why perfect?
Why not damaged?
I asked.
Roses hurt you through thorns.
Unlike sunflowers, making you smile always.
Moon doesn't have its own light.
Meteoroids produce their own,
Between the friction of layers of air.
Perfect? Does that even exist?
The mythical air, we breathe in.
Damaged, when mended... Becomes
perfectly beautiful.

-

Like it embedded in flying birds to abode, hold me in zeal, of
crumpled euphoria, sabered embodiment charisma, of Stygian glistening, through retina. Like, sometimes the macabre, illusions
with enigma, if not, then, ecstasy of,
Kaleidoscope adventures, of drifting emotions,
With cerulean silent of blue, smile of nib,
I live the twinkle, not just the stars, I live not to live,
I live to relive!
Like unfetter sillaged confinement, of cinnamonic
blithe, into sanguine blooms of magenta,
Zephyr of stoic and epucrean seasons, of veins,
Of oblivion, anecdotes of hues, scattered,
some gathered, rainbowed anatomy paradoxically.

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