Interconnected Dreams

wallup.net

Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.

Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.

coalesced dreams, some call them,
living without an end or beginning.

in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon.

Effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.

Does the Time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in these interconnected dreams

an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless Twin Sisters smile.

I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together

Northern Lights

Couple watching the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis), Reykjavik, Iceland

Come here,
Sit next to me,
Don’t leave me tonight.

Watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise colored sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds
through mellow howlings.

This cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.

Come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow.

Let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.

Don’t leave me tonight,
Come here,
Sit next to me.

An Artist Escapes

butterfly

He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals
mostly bread and wine.

Night and Day,
are melancholic mirrors.

he keeps trespassing between them
ignoring the sense of time
creating a vortex of imaginary visions.

Countless Albino Butterflies,
bathe in his color palette.

color-soaked wings
now seek the blank canvas,

the kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for the art to strive
and the artist to escape,
the meddling reality

Mumbai

marinedrive-2

As waves wrestle playfully,
I revel like a nonchalant dreamer near the shores,
watching the sun disappear,
while the sounds of the sea,
calm its disappearance

I waited all night,
to see the golden coronation
of the bluish waters,
as the horizons brightened up
in the morning

a thousand faces,
a million visions,
now stay with me,

meanwhile the city of dreams,
sleeps somewhere.

Winter

sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melted
to eventually freeze
in the sky

a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace

a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,

the fangs of frost
grope the petals of the flowers,
some will perish this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which I seek,
but at different times
in my life

Minutes I Counted Waiting

It rained almost every night,
the darkness settled in arrays
of brisk coldness,
dissolved in the winds
which howled and shattered
glasses of silence
that followed

for you it just meant a delay,
in carrying those earthen pots
walking with bare feet,
holding the grace and modesty
though puddles of cold water,
the weathers and wonders of god
meant nothing to you,

toiling for days and years
for a future unseen,
visioned through tired puffy eyes
of yours,
the only light you believed in
were in temples that devoured
ghee.

I slept all this time,
but never told you
about the minutes I counted
and waited to hear you mother,
to put the earthen pot
now full of water,
back on its place
and to see you settle down,
next to me again

The Tea Stall Warrior

his armor, is a vest with holes,
shabby shorts with a mosaic formed
by the stains of oil,tea, ashes of cigarette and coal

a foul-smelling cloth graces his shoulders
that sweeps the dust from the tables,
coincidentally it comes from the very stars
to which he prays sometimes in night

independence day for him,
is about selling his freedom
and a dozen flags,
a free plate of jalebi,
from the nearby school,
is the only reminiscence of the place
he was once born in,

he lives inside creaking doors,
surrounded by walls
capable of collapsing
by tremors of continuous coughing,

paints his dreams
from the acrylic color box found in a dustbin,
with bare hands on newspapers,
and scrapped sheets

he has no regrets
he might never have,
for he has never seen
the sun of expectations
rise in the morning.

the moon of contentment,
is what he only cares for.