No poet
Is filled with poise
Nor every hour awake he aches;
For lost love
Or far off islands
Half submerged in the sea,
Neither he weighs in world his price
In self- sought melancholy.
He is a restless hand
With a wineglass filled with ink
Drunk in the thoughts he have
Of the thoughts he cannot think.


Here we stand;
The golden gods
In a toolbox,
Each with a vision
Of a lesser folly
And a desire to draw diamonds
From ashes
An alchemy not of elixir
But venin from a common vein, of
Old blood waxed in bottles
For the good of tallow men
Because this too is an age of pharaohs
A passage in stories untold
Where the poor die to enshrine the rich
In pyramids of pallid gold
And yet the flesh, it shall turn to dust
And red bones be bleached white,
And these hollow tombs of chronic weight
Will tommorow have no might
For the mortal men, come immortal days
Do fade into the past
Till the first that came along this way
Resemble the very last.

The Remains of a Choice

Walk with me
Here is the world
You forgot to see
Full of love and it’s lessons
Of rough hands
Six inches heel
And blind poets in the dimly lit room
Full of artless art
Like you and me
All odes to an uncertain philosophy
In a collage of open legs
With vulgar words worded vague

I belong to the footpaths
And the palpable pain pouring out
The tinted windows;
Diluted desires and frail voices
Smelling of gas
And cigarette burns
That old musk of life
Left upon the threshold;
A broken door, open,
Gathering mould

I look in the mirror
Six feet high
Above the ground and the dirt
By my boots
And yet my face looks ugly
Soot stained
Without an inch of the fairy skin
I was blessed with
Years ago
One afternoon born of months old desire

Millions have walked past my place
Without a glance
At me
Standing upon the steps
Worn thin like razorblade
Blissfully unfed

For to be alone
Not unwanted
And unwanted
But not alone
Differs in different ways

The Vintage Words

Should I fade tonight
Into the cimmerian streets
Amidst the broken ballerinas
Tiptoeing upon the glass?
No, I am no dancer
Nor keeper of songs
But a faded adjective
Banal and long
Lost in the premise
Between the cause and the comma,
Dressed as a chatelaine
For the world and its drama
Never to be forgotten
Forever in this game
Of the way the words changes
And yet the meaning remains same.

The Act of Being Human

No man is unknown or all alone
In this age of pixelated passions;
We carry in our backpack
The same brand of anarchy, where
Our promises are echoes of the promises of past
Whilst the question is one: Why the answers never last
But wither away, dust, under each misled gaze
The One way remembered, a hundred different ways
Till after a while
It all returns to this:
Forked roads, Old home, second chances and first kiss

Poet Without Paper

They say to make a man;
Break him first
And only then the broken pieces
Ever becomes poetry
Alas no poet worth his salt
Has ever felt sorrow
For his feelings
Are bound to words
Which he passes down the morrow
So others could see it too
Like dry puddles of rains long past;
The shape; a shadow faded
Into brittle skin
And wounded wind
And a disguise that weighs too vast

There is no shame in being silent
As the world marches on;
To step aside the rails
And lay down in the fields
Be buried in sands of wheat
Or an ocean of daffodils
Or catch clouds in their azure kingdom
And lift wind with lifeless arms
Touch sky with tender lips
And grow stars in burnt down farms;
But nothing will, come of this quite,
No wrong that remains, shall turn right
Alone, here, in chambers
The ashes would glow
Broken pieces in an unbroken flow.