Strangers in the night

A flutter in once heart
A wave in another
causing ripples
in the stagnant river of life
In despair, they both meet
clinging to something
which momentarily exists.
A pain in once heart
A sorrow in another
colliding in the darkness
clutching the little fingers
only to let go
in the glory of the day.
A weakness in once heart
A vulnerability in another
slowly bandaging
the raw wounds
with their rendition
of the truth.
A wistfulness in once
A contempt in another
yet smiling
while walking
away from each other
fleeting the last glance
before turning
strangers
in the night.

Path To Glory – 2

A small step, on a long staircase

A single red rose, adding charm to an empty vase.

One stick completing a bundle.

A lone flaring candle,

To tear away the darkness.

They say,

 a single stitch can save grace.

The last fast lap,

can bring you back in the race.

A single-colored bead,

to beautify a plain necklace.

A new spice can enhance the taste.

Every stone counted,

to quench the thirst of the crow.

Million of low claps

makes a roaring crowd.

A penny in the bowl of charity,

A single drop on parched land,

Afterall a summit starts,

 from the base,

Every step matters, every breath counts,

When walking towards the heavenly staircase.

At every tick, move,

At each whistle, run

The road ahead

is long and twisted,

But its the,

Tiny steps of today,

that will lead you,

on the path of glory,

tomorrow. 

Rainbow Bulle

The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
enters the big puddle.
A small rainbow bubble
welcomes the two feet.
Two adjoining dots,
peer back,
the lurking shadow.
It resembles someone,
but whom,
it knows, not.
They both,
watch,
unfolding layers,
of the other.
They both look the same,
yet they are years apart.
One with yellow boots,
only smiles,
while the other,
laugh with eyes closed.
One has melancholy eyes,
the other, sunlit sparkles in them.
The furrowed eyebrows,
gaze,
at moonlit glow,
of the other.
Yes, they might look the same
but are years apart.
The umbra,
with knitted eyebrows,
gaze quizzically,
towards the two poles,
of this side.
As if asking,
the why’s
of the metamorphosis.
With a wry smile,
the vulnerable self,
answers, back politely.
People and time,
the
ever changing,
two’s of the world.
The silhouette,
slowly picks up,
the
coloured droplet,
and passes it on,
to the absolute.
The reverie breaks.
The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
moves out of the large puddle,
leaving the trace,
of seven-band,
healed aura.

How overrated you are?

Do you know how overrated you are?
Arising from the pit of my stomach,
leading to a racing heart.
The waterfall from my eyes,

causing this unbearable pain in my chest,
and yet, they all tell me,
blessed I am, because I know you.
What kind of blessing is it,
where I give,
All of me.
and wait,
and wait,
and wait,
for all of you,
to hold me.
The poets praise you,
the writers write their stories about you,
and here I am,
holding the bare threads,
trying to roll them into a ball,
Always thinking,
how overrated are you?
From Moonlight sonata
to Rumi’s words,

you are every artist’s best muse.
And yet, I am sliding,
in abyss,
while trying to,
hold you.
And pondering,
why are you so overrated?
But then,
comes,
the spur of moments,
with gentle showers,
and warm breezes,

with a radiant smile,
and tearful laughter,
enlightening,
the corners,
and igniting,
the soul,
and in those,
fractions,
I know,
my dear,
why you are so overrated.

Silence

You ask me, “How are you” as a pleasantry, not as a question.

The question I answer with only a few syllables.

I say I am fine, but sometimes out of the prettiness of the weather, I might end up saying, I am good.

You never intend to ask, and I never mean to reveal the truth hidden behind the veil of smiles.

With time I have hushed the voices, hidden deep inside my head.

Instead, I have become a silent observer, like you, watching the tides of my emotion.

I am silently learning to burn the fierce fires of my belly.

I am silently befriending, the silence.

Letting my silences do the wonders that my words could not.

Alas! That’s the irony of being human; we need words for everything.

Words for our simple joys,

To our mundane sorrows.

Words to read the intricacy of someone’s heart,

To the conundrum of their mind.

How great it would have been, if we could read each other’s silences.

And if we could, the world would not have existed, as it exists.

Because if we could, you might see that,

It’s the silhouette of darkness, that watches over me.

It’s the soft hand of night breeze that caresses my hair.

The stillness of the moon that holds me in its care.

The chirpiness of the birds which bring me joy,

The glory of the sun that brightens up my day.

It’s the nature that holds me intact, not you.

So, this time, I silently choose, Silence over words, to pierce through your soul.

The Wild Bull

The red muleta, flutters,
calling the uncalled
fury from me.
You,
the ignorant one, think,
I charge,
because you are Red.
Let me tell you,
dear friend,
my angst is not against you.
I am color blind, you see.
For me,
You have no color.
Your good looks,
aren't my concern.
It's your movement,
that cause me unease.
You make me feel,
powerless.
So, I charge you,
guilty.
Guilty of taking,
my peace,
away.
Guilty of making,
me feel,
unworthy.
Guilty of controlling,
the unscathed,
me.
So,
I charge,
with all,
my might,
at you.
I charge,
to snatch,
the peace,
that's mine.

Three ways

Sitting here, in dark,

I watch you,

Bathing in luminous pale light,

You glow,

With sheer whiteness,

Like a moon.

And I ponder,

The what ifs.

Will this proximity,

blur your innocence,

Or,

The purity of your heart,

will snuggle me.

Does my darkness,

Holds the power,

To engulf you.

Or is it other way round,

Where,

your light will seep in,

Filling the hollowness of my heart.

Will this,

Crossover jeopardize everything,

Turning your world upside down.

But what if,

The world looks glorious,

Upside down.

Or,

How about,

meeting in the middle,

Where your shine,

Sprinkled by my grayness,

As a silvery beauty.

What if,

The dark of my side,

Will open the chain,

Of your phosphorous glow.

Or,

Is it that,

Somewhere hidden beneath,

All the layers,

Of our worldly views,

there is us,

In all our nakedness,

Entwined,

Twin bodies,

With just,

one soul.

Building a simple,

Three way street.

Living with a dawdler

The blank paper looks at me asking, will I fill it with colors of my ink, today.

At times I see my books gawking, for the touch of my hand.


My running shoes smirk when I move them from one shelf to others, refraining their anger.


My coloring books peek through the piles of dust that have settled upon them over time, accusing me of neglect.


My wardrobe alarms me by letting the clothes fall on my face, tricking me into the web of the fixture.


My vanity box seeks my attention by opening itself every time I pass by.


My Camera is disappointed by my treatment and is ready to run away at the first exit.


My unread messages bubbling up to be tapped and replied, with an explanation.


The fruits on my table are dying and yet I profusely deny them the cure.


My phone balance cries as it desperately wriggles to get reduced to an accurate number.


My disheveled hair tries to push me to untangle them with the long untouched comb.


The chocolates in my fridge cabinet are waiting to get melted and dissolved in my taste.


My entangled thoughts want a release from the chaos, to float in the dust of the universe freely.


But I shun all of them,


And keep loitering around,


Sometimes in the visual word,


Other times in the dream world,


Often telling them,


To get accustomed,


With the life of a dawdler.

Fernweh

The yellow rain boots,
with layers of mud,
kept going,
in the marshes.
The pale pink dress,
drenched,
snugging to the body,
was moving.
Disheveled long hair,
swaying,
as darkness engulfed
all around,
with the bursting
of grey clouds.
Tired yet alive,
In pain but still moving,
to where,
who knows,
Running,
walking,
limping,
but still,
moving,
in the pursuit of happiness,
Clenching hope,
between her,
pruney fingers,
of,
new dawn.

Fernweh is German word, means an ache to get away and travel to a distant place, a feeling even stronger than wanderlust.It literally translates to “distance-sickness.”. While someone with wanderlust might sit at home and happily fantasize about all the places they might visit, someone with fernweh would feel a deeper sense of longing, a sort of homesickness but for foreign lands.

Where do the broken hearts go?

The rib-cage holding the hearts
from flying away,
In the shadows of darkness.
Otherwise,
where, do you think the broken hearts go?
Dipping in the sorrow,
of the ocean of shed tears,
dissolving the hidden pain.
Where else,
do you think the broken hearts go?
Numbing the emotions,
with sips of moonshine,
they sit on a vacant road.
Otherwise,
where, do you think the broken hearts go?
Sitting by the seaside,
looking into the vastness,
filling the holes
with the salty air.
Where else,
do you think the broken hearts go?
Scribbling on the blank pages,
with verses,
that tear apart.
Otherwise,
where, do you think the broken hearts go?
Strumming the chords,
pouring,
the aching heart,
into the world.
Where else,
do you think the broken hearts go?
Sometimes, they stumble,
and meet,
other broken hearts,
It’s here,
the first healing begins.
Otherwise,
where, do you think the broken hearts go?