A Lunar noon...

Another summer lingers..
Through the shaded leaves of twilight..
Falling on those parted lips..
Demurely..
Licking a lost smile..
With a lucid sonnet..
Of abjured longing..
And tendered skies..

The old Bandra fort..
Hid the smoke..
In the fogged boulders grey..
Arising inside distant voices..
Of muted waves..
And tuneful rubble...

There arose another pair..
Of barren eyes..
To blink away mementos..
Amidst scarlet shadows...
Washed in lukewarm delight...
In an infliction of affection..
Of the Orange Moon..
Into a wordless eclipse..

Shaded..

She walks apart of the shadowed milieu...
In seeking words from another..
Amongst scorching bristles and stealth
In an unkempt rendezvous...
With the Sun..

Many crept apart...
From a fallacy of amour..
Inside that pouting heart..
Which hoped and hopes still;
For rebukes and whims..
Which smudges away deletions..
And expressions...
She holds back.. away...aloof..
From the Parisian walkways..

Ode to Freudian Complexes..

Plucking out fantasies,
From the whorls of phantasmal delight,
She cremated,
Words and syllables of affliction,
With lurid lullabies
Of Imagination..

Figurines of fervent love,
Burnt in terse absurdness,
Of Mirth and Misgivings,
Swerved an old house,
To form softened scars..
In a whirlpool of Maim.

Holding tender shards,
Of trembling dunes..
And lofty breeze,
She emerged out,
Sprinkling droplets of Blankness;
And Indifference;
Shielding jaded beams,
On a Supine dawn..

Phantasm..

The old footprints hung by the bay..
Crawling over abrupt silence,
Streaming the remains,
Of a festered coast..
Where the shimmering brine,
Strolled in a broken cavalcade,
Over the waves..

The ocean-bound voices trembled;
In an expression of lunar ecstasy;
Lost in the transient daylight,
Evading the echoes of his breath..
That brushed,
The rouge on her cheeks..

Profane records..
Playing in her mind;
Of an unusual retreat,
Drawing a name..
In the sands of twilight beaches...
Or..
The stagnant air..
Of dawning Walkways..

The streets became a part of her sight;
Singing of Mirages;
Chirping of parables..
And fables..

Picture of you...

The icicles
Shone across a molten cyan skyline..
Winter trickling down..
The chords of March.

Slivers of muted butterflies
Resembling a mild panacea,
Of an estranged pause..
Yielded;
To a sketched vignette..
Atop the old yellow leaflet;
Clasped within her eyes.

Nostalgia sprung on high notes..
Winding down mosaic warmth;
Rushing along a feverish brook..
And scented dale;
His song strummed the dusky fog..
Smothered in torrid snow flakes.



This one's for Lorenzo... wrote for him after a long time..

Brishti....

I wait for Sleep..
Feeling.. the need to fly..
I wish, I could run..
Run beyond the bayonets and shrines of Gods..
Run beyond the fog of cigarettes;
And rusted romance..

Swish along the path ..
Where I lived...
by the sea..
To that place..
Underneath the orphaned rain...
Swept up by the weeping Moon..
folded safe..
In my torn checkered pocket..

I can hear the Fendo bleed my nails..
And
Rye breaks down..
Breaks; Apart;
In bouts of levied consciousness..
Lifting my eyes to a canvas on the wall..
Of Judas and Agamemnon,
Of Sun;
And Moon;
and this time..
Baby came through...
Delved...out her way..
From the Disappearance..
Forever..

Binary Vision..

I was awake.. Yes, alone ...awake.. maybe woken up..
Too many things to remember.. strings...roses...the taste of rain at the hollow of my neck... the odd smell of carnesians..
But then...do carnesians have any smell at all?
Maybe not.. maybe it's just the way they feel..
The tender curled petals bristling along my hand...soft....like an eitherdown..maybe something you slept on in your childhood when you went back to pluck "aparajita" early morning...
maybe it reminded her of that..odd bud she hid along her pillow...reminiscing a lover...
Maybe the way it would feel to kiss someone over and over while you're splashed by the waves..
Maybe she did exist... in the realms of emptiness... in the corners of faith... in the hope for no more surrenders... in the feeling of living a life...
This time it was only her...
just her..
underneath the bridge of breaths.. sewing up pictures with closed eyes....forming that old blanket we all want... when we snuggle into our beds early winter mornings..

She can see every thing now ...even with that blinded sight.. ;)