Scars

The lull sky of dismay etched across

The fruitless orchard of mulling notions

Bereft of thought; transfixed in slumber

Ridden eyes, facing an uncanny breeze

Into the whirlpool of strange consequences

He was inept in telling her

What was there in the air

He mumbled listlessly to

Reluctantly point at the veiled

Consternations

He did not sleep

He couldn’t sleep

He knew why he

Couldn’t

Oh! He knew it well

On moonless nights

All he did was lie

By the weeping lake

Gazing at the raven

Sky, till dawn decided

To interfere

He knew sleep would

Lure him one day

One day for sure

With or without her

And in hope of the

Former, he kept staring

At the sky

  

Heterogeneous

When the last chord of the old band
Rustled the leaves of the story-tree
A bypassing frenzied flutist broke loose
And thus she chanced upon what was
Supposed to be forgotten that autumn
In distrust, distress, dishonour and distortion

Did the obscured story talk about negligence?
Did it talk about the effervescence of conflicting eyes?
Did it take her through old newspaper stains?
Did it kill the songs of her era or rather choke them?

And she retired.

From the epiglottis

Well, it was not exactly what you would call serendipity. It was rather premeditated. Convoluted connotations set into the right spots like the multilayered blue near mountain tops. It was not easy to camouflage or was it supposed to be thrown into the open sea? Questions, dialogues and midnight monologues.

Her paintings hung from the ceilings in a room of enamoured endeavours. Her voice curled into the room like the lush sound of nocturnal rain. She was absolute yet she didn't move. She was within yet distant enough to fall beyond the reach. She coalesced into the paintings and the sound of relentless rain.

She promised to be found in that dawn which would strike down the last harbinger of the dark night. In prologues, she would blush and in the preceding chapters she would make me run away from the maddening crowd.

In pictures, I did see what colours might suit her glee but I kept them to myself.

Photographs

Photographs, that's all there was
Hanging onto broken doorknobs
Lurching perilously into afterthoughts
Caressing the unruly hours

Photographs don't move
Yet the forgotten cigarette
And the smirking ashtray
Had a different story to tell

On vagaries and the night

As we strode into
A voluptuous black
Dark hole of insecurities
And blasphemous desires

There is an inner silence
Reverberating to lead you
Onto a vacant correlation
Of speechless monotones

And she laughed out loud
Speaking of gullible desires
As she turned on the stereo
And she flawlessly conquered
The nuances of the invigorating
Night

On Not Meeting

And the last straw
Made it certain that
The zephyr will not
Cometh this way

Although the piteous
Bird has given her
Consent to hunker
Down on the streets of
Poetry-less dysentery

Had the locked trunk
Whistled in the rain
And in endless traffic
The sultry tail end of
A nonchalant day
Broke into a jazz quartet
"Nonetheless" sighed
Bonolata in dismay

On Chasing Conversations

Slipping through the slits and fingers

Tainted words and precarious conjunctions

Silently growing onto you like a weed

Slowly seeping into your untrained mind  

Frisking, frolicking and foaming unto the

Unchartered grounds and misleading air

While you sit upright, hiding from plain sight

What could have fuelled your thorough

Yet myopic might has bloated up into

A disastrous confluence of conflicts and wine

Catering to the needs and superfluity

You had darted dauntlessly into assumptions

And tobacco induced believing of the new

All to be greeted with a profane smile

Have you carried the weight of the words?

To fall prey to ephemeral trust and confide

Once again to be reminded of blind-spots

You had so craftily hidden away

In your whiskey flask and presumptions

And here you are, backsliding

Glorifying the deeds of the day

You heave a sigh and take refuge

In books, nooks and firefly jars

Searching for the lost locks of

That chiming conversation

What’s left to taste are the flavours

Swindling you into believing

That the trees you so willingly

Wanted to clasp are there at

Your naïve disposal and just

When you take a step forward

A word tears them apart

Cold Demeanor

The last strings are pulled

Much to the audiences’ despair

The puppet show is over

In overtures and epitaphs

Wilted flowers wistfully lay

Piercing the skin into the flesh

The nocturnal yearns of years

Untouched beneath the stairs

Dwindling shadows caressing

The restless hours of longing  

Lullabies

The poet has risen today to

Answer his tarred lungs

Gasping for air and scent

Of the woman who has

Slithered into the veins

Of sleep-deriding eyes,

Differentiated him – molecule

By molecule

Jarred by the gusty wind

The rusty chandelier creaked

And curled curtains let

The wavering streetlight in

To forms misshapen mounds

Of colours on his face

Colours colder than the winter’s

Breath

The silting snow reached

Out to frosted window panes

Only to witness the leftovers

Of the synthetic day;

The poet’s half eaten eyes

Shone in the flickering light

Becoming one with the

Nakedness of the night

It

In the frills

Through the gills

It bubbles up

On a corner

Trampled cobblestones

Pre-emptively whispers

Stitched stains

Pensively lead them  

To relentless fervour

Pining pines

Blushing vines

Delinquency and humour

It poses back to

Interact while the sirens

Convolute

A formless form

Desperate to fuse

Into the vigil mind

It touches the night

And colours it blind

Heedless flocks of raven

Plunge in to save the

Chosen and the naïve

In unkempt sanity

One faces oneself

All so it can feed

Behold the night

Disapproving eyes

For it has come to

Steal   

Of What Was Left Behind

A languid grey overshot

The blank verse of the forbearing

As the lank branches gaped

At the roads of pertinence

Locked down in the attic

Were epiphanies of the genius

Overlooked and blotched

Approaching the moment

In the notes left behind

In ink, in oil and in in-conclusion

Damp tunes of that autumn

Engorged by agony of the untold

He dipped and dived

She waited for the right hour

He walked in parallel

She was perennial