What am I but an autumn leaf?
Fallen. Trampled. Old.
What am I but a blaze of years?
Hammered. Heated. Gold.

Little have I seen
But felt too much
Swept by the wind
Locked in a hutch

What am I but garbage shoved?
With pages and metals in rust
What am I but just time?
Now dust covered in dust

-

I shouldn't be here now
Not again. Not ever.
And yet I find myself in the same old garden
Weaving the same old garland
Out of autumn dried flowers and leaves
For the baby winter weeps
And I shush the not-so-distant cold
Before it explode
And freezes the already frozen island

-

Dust Of Dusk


Smeared with the dust of dusk,
I gulp the fire of the Sun.
With a glance of tusk,
I pierce the ways of hearts that run,
or fall for dawn,
to dig the seed sown in their heads
that puts not dark but bright ahead.
Someone must have murdered night to spread the dread.

In my waxes and wanes,
I'm accompanied by gloomy lanes,
and glum eyes that drink from the bleeding night,
to soothe their pain that burns in light;
or none at all,
just the ghost of night
that swallows my shadow in envy,
keeping me the best company,
filling spaces between me and dawn,
until I exhale fire and break the day's yawn.
When all hearts beat, mine sinks
for glaring rays myriad eyes blinks,
and I, smeared with the dust of dusk
take refuge in my shell like a mollusk.

-

What would you do with a dried flower
In a world filled with fresh florals?
Drop me in the ocean
I'd be fine decorating the corals

What would you do with an unscented flower?
I lost my scent years ago
Now I'm idly everywhere
In the feet of your god and in the buns of hoe

What would you do with half a flower
When you can find whole flowers everywhere
Take away what's left.
And don't bother. Don't care.

You can't sell me outside the mosques and temples
I have no value
I gave a bit of me to everyone and lost myself
Will you understand? Do you?

Don't bother. Don't care.
Take what's left of me
Tear me down to nothing
That's what I am. That's me.

-

Feed your snores to my ears
the only sound at night
that takes away
all my fears

-

When I was young I was told to be like a mountain.
"It's the symbol of strength" they said.
Why does it fall and why is it broken then?
Avalanche steals its part away
downpour erodes its top away
It is left naked.
We climb and cover it with flags of different colors.
"Hey, look I climbed this mount"
Well, If we form a team we can break the mount.
Into rocks. Into bits.
Its pieces drown too because of its weight.
Think about a feather now.
It flies because it is light.
It floats because it is light.
We never look at it and say "How strong!"
Its mere size can not decide its strength.
Seasons change.
But the Earth can't swallow it so long as it keeps flying.
It always dusts itself off.

-

Silence

Silence is not always silent
I've heard it roar with pain
and go violent

Silence is Leo, my lion
that lives in solitude
and hear the sighs of zealous hearts tryin'
or the snivelling souls cryin'

And yet it stands composed
making the strongest hearts go insane
at its touch and lose hold

Silence is an often ignored friend
because it is ever-present
in crowd and in hearts abandoned
a selfless friend hard to comprehend

(Read Caption)

-

Tired Thespian- Behind Closed Door

Her bower sees no Summer
It's as cold as numbing November
where lay a thespian denuded of her attire
her merry masquerade bespeaks satire.
She wears her smile like dentures
but in her bower she need not wear them
for she is free to live her own adventures
where her heart plays drum roll
and her thoughts are never in control.
She lay curled up in bed
eavesdropping the eternal prattle in her head.
The whir of the fan whistles at her sight
and murky air that stinks of half rotten memories
reminds her of reality she fights solo every night.
The ceiling stares at her as if it would fall for her bravery
but it doesn't, knowing that she is committed to her misery.
The walls stand in duty like characters so fictional
four grizzled guards- the devoted sentinels.
The window is her screen
that shows other thespians wearing smiles with buried screams.
The screams that they exhume at night
when they are far from the world's sight.
The next day she wakes up to face her own critic- the mirror
and dons her sham blithe attire
before she goes to swim with the other fishes in the blue river.

-

Time- The Tailor

I took my ripped heart
to time- the tailor
and asked to sew the pieces together.
It took out its needle like a surgeon.
In a blink, I found myself handcuffed in a dungeon.
I knelt before my master,
with every step it grew more austere.
With its needle it pricked my already ripped heart.
A tailor who didn't sew,
and surgeon that didn't heal
but put me through agonizing ordeal;
my scars it concealed.
It only whipped and tortured
until I could no longer feel.

-

Dinky Drops- The Messenger Of Love

As the dinky drops fall on me
at times gently and sometimes with celerity
making love to me
as you would, if you were near me
I blush green
reflected by the bush that carries our gene.

For ages I've been laying supine
not letting our love, by time defined
or by distance confined
I whelve my emotion
in the pocket of my cater-cousin, the ocean
as messenger it flies high with all devotion.

And then you blindfold Sun
for the evening to be dark and dun
You undo the clouds
and send the dinky drops back to me
that caresses my aching heart and whispers your love to me
as you would, if you were near me.

But what love is love if it no hardships face?
So there are days
when all I do is stare and pandiculate
your touch of love I await
until the weight of my thoughts pull me apart
people call it drought and think it's the end of a heart.

Only the wise know
that the most intense feelings only time and distance sow
at our wrangle you groan and rumble
with fear I moan and tremble
Until finally, the dinky drops canoodle me
as you would, if you were near me.

-