Rowing Till The Riverbed

Let me fall now, no
Let me fade away instead
I am tired of being ever alone
Of being always afraid

I was a fool to grapple with the dark, you know,
A fool to light my heart on fire
A fool to eat the wounded ashes
To taste the honey of that sweet desire

I was blind with my eyes open
Blind to the water rising around my waist
Blind to see that I with my words
Was no different than the rest

So here I am now, here,
A face amongst other faces:
All fools condemned henceforth
To die; by hanging on her tresses

I should have known it, I should have
For it was no secret after all
That there was magic in her voice
And that it was a siren’s call

It was this damned dream, you see,
To be together in the end
So surreal that I forgot
It was all make-believe, a pretend

I am going now, I am gone
There are other lovers in the line
They ask me if she is a goddess
And I answer: Yes, if the Devil’s Divine…

Stake

Come here
Little birds
On my old broken branch
For its your weight that shall hold me
More than my roots

Pigments of Pain

I listen to the clatter
Rolling coins
Gasping through cracks
Of fractured philosophy
In this modern world writ with
Make believe merchandise
Life lived through litmus paper
Chemical imbalance
Anarchy in equation
Feather dust in vacuum weighing same as the sun
Candles upon cake, wax trees,
Forest of flames, ages incinerate:
Gullible times, marzipan issues souring into
Phrases describing sunlight through trees unlike sunlight through trees
Anything but the obvious, the immutable
Sieved eyes and beetle brain
Taking over photosynthesis
Bottled chimera, disco dreams
Autumn in lungs
Coughing art; blood on canvas, dotted design
Cerise constellation simplified by
Binary prophets
Dripping tap, blocked sink, dim streetlight, ivy on the roof, dust on the doormat, average grades, loose socks, society on chemo, Syrian seizures, Africa and Ebola, avalanche on Everest,
Anthill, beehive, New York, Mumbai
Sunrise at six, Sunset at seven
Coconuts, candles and carpets for heaven
Rubber tires on tarmac
Plastic skin
LED hearts
Tears on screen
Protein pronouns, varicose verbs
Multinational menagerie of Lego world
Digitally distilled with castrated cause
Packeted products: for all flaws
Barcoded breaths
Beginners beware
This land of the dead is alive on prayer.

Flowers Don’t Sing

I know you don’t have to listen
To all that I have to say
And to be true I am just talking
To myself everyday
It’s sad, I know:
To see myself smile
And even the reflection
To return it
Only once in a while…

Synthetic Symphonies

I closed my eyes and waited
For my heart to retain its beat
And all I heard were it’s broken pieces
Saying: This. Is. It.

Anatomy of an Answer

The sound of your senses
Breaks over me
And I drink your waterfall words
With it’s torrent of charcoal images
To the last drop
So others may never know
How you, of cinnamon soul, sell poisoned dreams
Manicured with epidermal perfection
The rag doll fantasy
Of jazz love
To strangers in quiet bars;
Those people unaware of the everyday almanac
The self-help lies written on bruised pages
By every Adonis who felt
Being closer to you
Would suffice

But I watch as you walk on water
Just so to show you can
And laugh
At all those speechless spectators
Now followers of your riptide wisdom
Pledged to play their heartstrings
So you may dance upon their demise
Dressed in funeral face
And be beautiful
Like a child on Christmas
Suffocating
With joy

The wind it whistles
Swallows and sells
Your perfume; twigs of spring broken underfoot
Ashes in the air; this midnight snow,
And still figures, lifeless statues, staring in envy at
The echo of our footsteps
We walk, in discord, my toe timed to your heel
Crude judgement
Capricious
To mock the pedestal born
So frozen in time that a grey hair
Succumbs only once in a millennia

You see, I see
The lights red and yellow
Bleeding fireflies
Resting upon rooftops
In mechanical merriment
Happy at the thought of being happy
And you now know you cannot see more than you know
And thus you cry
At the anomaly of your eye
And I do not have a handkerchief
To spare
For I care no more of your other face
Or the one within
That exists only to dream
The desires
So I leave you at the crossroads
Knowing sooner or later
An Adonis shall pass
Dressed in angel dust
God forbidden

Her Other Half

We talk like strangers
Unwilling to laugh
Unable to cry
Like two shells remembering
The sound of a sea
Buried deep
Somewhere
In fissures of our bone…
Yours too my love?
Or of mine alone?

I was wrong to dream, wasn’t I?
Wrong to feel
Wrong to hope
A fool who thought her happiness starts
At the end of his joke
O Pagliacci, Pagliacci
Thou story of my life
Why didn’t you laugh and say:
It’s the heart which pierced the knife

Bye now, it’s late
And I have old wounds to tear
Like promises to make love
Or I wish you were here
The night is still young
Do not waste it on me
You had my life once
But you never stopped to see

Moral Of All Stories

Image by Elijah Hiett @unsplash

On a blue green morning
Two men
Sitting on a stone
By a river still and deep
Discussed the world’s demise
Feeling old and feeling wise
Till one of them caught a fish
And left

PIECES

All that is left now;
Is for us to write
Of our dreams of the day
That died in the night

A Lifetime

If all the nights
And all the days
Of my life
Condense
In one epiphany without end
Then friend hear well
That the clock, when it strikes midnight,
Will not be pointing at twelve