Ghosts
and
this silence
should have a name.
but,
the consistency of its taste
and
the constancy of its smell
makes it harder
for the mind to tame.
the gibbous moon
stood in full view
on the funeral night
as a reminder of
things we lost and never thought-
is the moon full or half?
and this silence
should have a name.
the silence on funeral nights-
the percussion of the rain
against the rusty roof;
the consonance of it all.
in the presence of death,
a stitch in time
will save none.
Her love letters-
like black roses
blooming in winter-
Silence
waiting to be
turned to ashes.
(Source: neeyee)
Gone.
that night,
like it was in dreams-
warm August air;
bodies, hot and drenched.
souls entwined.
lying in electric fields-
the faint murmur
of tulips that seemed to
hold their breath,
crushed by the innocence
of playful toes.
i once learnt that nothing
lasts forever,
but that night i thought
otherwise-
seeing God’s woolen eyes
in dying lit candles
disguised as stars.
it was so beautiful
i wanted to touch it.
i once learnt that everything
beautiful was in a way broken.
my adolescent limbs pacing
through the darkness
to strike the chord,
rearrange the broken cadence
light years ahead of us-
only,
by the time i reached
the summit of the horizon,
it was, gone.
the wax melting off the
moon’s back-
the sullen downpour of rain,
every summer after.
Coldest Winter
with each passing sunset
where skies are colored
blood-orange,
with the white flurry of snow-
metallic, crisp and bright
peeling the rind that once
held all together-
and the tangerine colored headlights
slicing through the quiet
of the fog-
the long sigh of January’s rain;
ice crystals kissing
my sole,my soul-
a freezing silhouette,
i can only hope that spring’s
warm hands,
find me in peace
and not as ashes crawling from
the fire-
the thud of a naked moon
falling to pieces.
To speak to the dead
And discover that
Yesterday is in the
Empty bottle of gin
(Long drunk)
And the future we
Continually pant in dreams for
Has been there all along-
The tale of another,
Struggling to see with eyes,
Under the lithe moonlight
Resembling the edge of
Drunken transparent glasses.
somehow,
the most unforgettable
poets are those
who have perhaps
never put pen to paper,
but whose
voice we’ve learnt to savor.
Devil in a new Dress
the clock’s paused,
like it never often does,
between this black and
white anemic walls,
where fairy tales pressed
between books says
love often leads us.
he undresses her-
a young maiden in
her snowy gown,
kissing her clavicles-
perfect like the second
hand of winter’s quartz
clock-
degree-less in temperature-
the dusk of her nightmares.
the sigh in her hips as he
traces the outline-
the hollow reflection of him,
prince cHarming, yesterday.
the weak sun staggers
through window blinds-
her sweaty tongue cursing
the roof-
the taste of dreams that
we never see.
here she goes again,
in a slow waltz with the dark,
supple kisses to the nape-
catching her breath,
retracing his steps
….
More Beautiful than Silence
equivalent echo’s of our
talking breaths-
laden with sour consonants,
nouns with cigarette holes
in them trapped in our mouths
that make our palates sore and
mistifies window panes,
are just a reminder that
on crisp winter mornings,
like this one,
all we have to do is listen.
listen and perhaps,
smile with chapped lips
whenever we bite our tongues
from our thoughts tripping
on pale red floors
cos’ what is more beautiful
than silence, is sharing that
moment with someone-
breathing in, the now.
I opened a
fortune cookie
today and it
said
“Stop leaving
everything to
chance”
Act III(You)
sea green eyes,
glossy hair
honeyed skin?-
i try to picture the girl
he always writes about-
is she a poet-
or has he wrapped perfect
sentences around just
a closed back rounded vowel?
a lie forever hidden in his tongue?
is she a painter-
impressionist paintings
of her in a single line
or could it be concise
expressions of imaginations?
the moon goes to sleep,
on the bed of sea
his view is stitched
into dark and gray tones-
last view of emerald lights
the soft sound of his crying
lonely heartbeat against
scarlet bedroom walls-
moments when he stretches
his arms into bloodless shadows
a reminder that perhaps
until he smells the scent
of ink at sunrise,
sees her through onion skin
he could be alone
after all.
