Memento 22...

Deceptive tranquility wafted past..
Eons of obscure Allusions..
Eerie mockingbirds ambling with estranged songs..
Agape at the strangeness of the Sea..

An abridged afternoon disguised profanity..
Creeping along the broken streets..
Where she held the City by her gaze..
Her blinks..
An Anodyne to the blemishes..

The Wild April Snow..
Morphed nebulous sketches..
Of a bohemian phone call..
By a far away Arcane Story-teller..
With a stellar baritone averting wakefulness..
In a frivolous rapture into the night..

Bemused frost felt damp..
Against the pellucid window panes..
As she squinted past Mortal Maxims..
To meander along the Eastern Countryside..

The hands of time closed her eyes..
An Avalanche of smiles..
Of a Clandestine Phoenix..
Tenderly erupting into Daybreak..

The Song of Tragoidia..

The Sonnet broke free..
In the quiet January twilight..
Satyrs awakened to the amorous tune of Concerto..

Volition..
It blushed in amazement..
Serenading secrets to the Ice Lake..
Discerned in a Vortex of Predicaments..

Darkness..
It cloaked the tears..
Like strewn Jasmine hidden by the Vulpine Snow..
Stumbling upon a girl..
Who was neither a paragon..
of Virtue nor Justice..
Not tasting the fruit of her Wickedness..
but that of her mistake..

Tragedy..
It slid in to the frames of a memory..
Through the wishful will of fate..
Just as the sacrificed Iphigenia seek an answer..
And.. Antigone a funeral..

Silence..
It crooned an open road..
Rubble of Conscience lay untouched..
Defiant of a Cosmic Life..
Cloying conflicts..
Painting insipid sensibilities all around..

Devolva me....

I don't know what to say... And I don't know what to feel.. Maybe this is what it feels to disbelieve pathos and parables... To hear every tale, every story yet again... In the subconscious, I touch her hand as we spoke of a A Wednesday...
Thamma, Thamma... I called out to someone who'd seen me grow in to a little woman... in that row house by Goodwill Enclave.. It was just a fortnight ago, on the Christmas day, as chilly Pune air shied away with her warmth...
"Look Rimi's decorated the tree, a little mellow for commemorating the attacks"...

Why?.... Why?.... Why?

This afternoon as Rye writes, her ink dries up just as her voice is lost... the eyes unable to see and how ? How can she?....
The words can never be completed...
sentences a far cry...
Coz I can still smell her besides me... in the stories of a childhood spent at a home away from home... The horror, the morbidity and an ugly despair of senselessness vapourises from the heart...maybe.. all over me...forming an eerie glass prison..where I'm caught.. This time it's all over... there's only the abstract to look at.
Nothing really matters anymore...

Death playing a sublime jazz beating, mocking me from here on...

Clouds..

The hands of time closing in on her eyes..
Dead petals balking in acrimony..

For..
she once was a young..
gardenia bud..
Brushing across the streaming ponds..
swaying with winds..

Refusing to leave her willow..
She escaped to the reveries..
of the jilted clouds..

Weaned... in her wilted abode..
She fell prey to the earth..
Adorning the hall of reverence..

The candles flickered to the hum..
Of an Old Carol..
Beholding the benevolence of the Lord..

There..
She found her clover leaf..
Her place in solace and solitude..

~
This one's dedicated to Sushi...
Love you always :)

Auld Lang Syne..

The demure star
made love
to
the whisps
of
a night
so apocalyptic
knowing
it will
break
into a dawn..

A soft season
of
hopefulness..
shrill
and faint..
Cremated
with
the creole
they sang
once
lying in arms..

The July rain
sank
on
it's knees
As
the silence
streaked
down
her
livid
naked
cheeks..

An insatiated
edifice
the whirlwind
left behind..
over
the
stone chair
by
the garden..
Decorous air
set
love-leaves
afloat
to the sky..
Even as
the Moonbeam
stole
them away..

She sat
by
the temple
of time..
The snow
this December
turning
lemon wet..
with
the
Whiff of Spring..

She..

I met her by chance..

That night I saw the stars leave the sky ..departing...as her laugh tinkled...sparkling across the cosmos..
and..
I froze in my words..
She painted a window across the shadow that day.. With colour boards and mood boards splashing her warmth across the walls sketching me a festal delight.. I wished that time to see her.. maybe to unforget an unfinished letter I wrote once.. maybe to reminisce the path tread when I spoke to her on my way back from Santacruz station.. maybe to adore the soul inside her..
A timeless sunshine descending into people's hearts..
The mauve zephyr along the eastern coast..

Tempara..

An old mountain
calls out..
to
the Mural
sparkling
like
a ghastly skull
which
tendered
it's breast

An old moon
gazes
at..
the contemptuous sky
resembling
an incomplete
sonnet..
longing
to be unfurled..


The Oldest
worms
squirmed
her fresco..
Her eyes
their imaginings
of
a pasture
golden..
with
glee..