During the day
Our works save us from each other.

Television blares me out of your mind.
I chop vegetables. I peel away your presence.

We sleep, far away
right next to each other
Recalling memories
of fog-filled unreal times
when my prince had your face.
Me, your princess
dressed in joy.

And we sang the song of love…

How did the the many instruments of our song
begin to fuse into a monotone?

And the words that spoke of love

learn to speak a different language?
And when did my fabulous white gown
shred into a fog so dense?

Questions like these
paint our walls now.
Where a very present white
uncolours itself.

a river flows…

now a river flows like it always did. seen. dipped in. quenched from. nourished by. cleaned by. grown out of.

now a river flows by, like it did always - what is left of it. and what became of it. waged upon by unfriendly waters. carrying forth unasked baggage. and sands from every shore.

the same river flows now. incessantly. fed by rains and unknown springs. or majestic glaciers. for as long as forever. fighting your memory with its new waters. constantly. so that it remains the same river. that flowed there. then now and forever.

an ode to white

walls silenced under white

voiceless

and blind

stand testimonial

to the ebb and flow of life…

 

white white white

this inescapable sight

that paints the walls of the inner eye;

our sorrows muffled under

pangs of laughter.

fog that is white

sometimes the moon too?

silver white!

white

that dresses the skies

and our whispers alike.

white:

unred, unblue, uncolored,

white that isnt green

white the bosom of a page

studded in script

white that listens

when asked to speak

white

us washed off our sins.

a morning by the well…

walled water

bitter breeze

rippled thoughts

september skies

tons of tadpoles

tadpoles that grow up to be

frogs in the well

unless

they take the stairs

an afternoon heard

from the window,the sound of wind. almost voice-like. and then, silence. silence? or the aural void that replaces the wind? television talks. just as it did since dawn. the clock ticks overhead and holds an unending conversation with the table clock. a distant vehicle blares and another and another. birds sing.  the next best sound after silence. the beep of an incoming message. occasional giggles and quips from the drawing room. melodrama unfolds on the television. and silence falls. again. the keys click as i type. and life flows, dull and grim without the music that is silence.

At a poetry reading session

words.
mazes of words
whole streets of them.
a swift drive through
one of those localities
never fully seen or understood
words
that capture
that dreams are made of
words
wish mine were like yours
words
the choicest words
picked from a garden full of blossoms
words
your words
have built my dream house.

Unpeopled,
Healing under silent shadows
As soothing winds tend to aching parts;
Wishing, the burning light
Freezes in its height
And the blanket of slumber

Forever weighs upon.
Streets bare it all
And embrace Night.