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