Sweet Little Death

Let go of the reins,
for this beloved chariot of life
is in a beautiful shamble.

a one-way trip to drink destruction
is sometimes worth it,
if you just learn to close your eyes
at the right time.

all your swirling horrors,
shall fuse and sublimate at midnight.

you would annihilate every night,
what wasn’t yours.

to create what would never be yours,
for it belongs to this world.

you are an artist,
this is how you evolve.

with sweet little deaths,
and a lifelong acrimony
to see what others refuse to.

Longest Night

It rained that night,
for the air was a sinful blend
of your pleasant smell
and the fresh petrichor.

In the sheets, we drowned for eternity,
like bare mermaids and mermen, making love
in the darkest hours to rage the calmed sea.

We forget our meaningless existences,
the two vagrant souls found a home within each other.

as I traced your curves;
your hair leaned to hide
your shyness from being naked,
as the incessant clouds
hides the modesty of the sky.

For your adorable smile,
I waited until the dawn.
the sunshine crowned your beauty
while gracing your modesty in the morning.

but you disrobed the curtains
and yourself slowly to threw away the crown
of beauty
and at that moment I knew,
It was going to be the longest night of ours.

 

Beauty

The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes the child within me.

I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.

I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.

I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.

I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.

I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.

I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.

Poetic Illusion

Lightness descends
in my head

as a brief vision of yours
reincarnate within me

you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion

an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations

and I read you very slowly
like one of my own written creations.

for I have been a starving reader
all my life

and you were finally
an end to my starvation.

The Poet of Kashmir

Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.

this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.

The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.

We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed.

In winter,
when it rains saffron
instead of snow.