The mind is its own beautiful prisoner, its dark fantasies inoculating the adjoining parts of the body against reason, against light and against the will to resist, mine gazed at the moon with its cream-colored disfigurement and pulled out a singular thought red as a loganberry, its sweetness enveloping the tongue.
Unperfect is desire that paves the way for chronicles of life, your flesh
is a delicate dance of syllables that infiltrates my poetry, its innocence searching me out as though a conversation that’s been left in the middle, perhaps I belong to you in sonnets as indigo sky sets into my throat, it’s a most beautiful feeling raw in its energy as though a sense of warmth emerging from the cold.
Your lips are rose bud, a gateway to eloquent speech as the world around me spins, could this be a delusion? could it be that I am being deceived? If only I could touch you, if only I could step into naked reality and have a pink flush cover my face and sweating palms, I brushed away further ideas and once again gazed upon the sky, the mind is its own beautiful prisoner but like the moon I am not willing to be imprisoned just yet.
They say once you have perfected the art of being alone you are ready for this world, the weight of misinterpretation is almost enough to topple me, the current sufficient to take me down far stream. What use is Poetry? What’s the function of Poets? What good does it do nowadays are just few of the absurdities which I have to deal with on a daily basis. Listen here in times of adversity poetry is twilight on fire, the sand more sepia, a miracle that arrives when the heart least expects it, its words are kindness, a conversation, a concern and at times a rebellion. Poetry understands anxieties and ghosts that haunt one’s mind, head in the clouds, impractical and incapable of dealing with matters listen here Poetry will wield your taunts and brandish its reply like a sword, the answer to your query is simple we are warriors of light, of truth, of words and clear manifestation of spirituality and hope, our function is to give deeper meaning to the world, observe as we create a path between two points, such that runs beneath seas
and mountains. So, the next time you come across a Poet in the street take a moment and see him for what he truly is.
I sip comfort in the early hours of morning as rays highlight the blush suffusing my skin. Below the sights and sounds of traffic sound vaguely as though a murmur through the door; as I indulge in conversation and Kashmiri tea garnished with crushed nuts and a hint of salt with cardamom. If eyes are the antechamber to the soul then lips are no less, the deep curve of his makes the world around me spin with a smile that brings to mind a thousand memories; each of which offers joy of being alive and just a bit more humane.
Cassia trees sway in Spring, a wave of gold spreads as the wind sings your name.
Feels like I have been here before, the sights and sounds seem familiar even though I haven’t set foot upon the ground, by day the city is bathed in light, a shade of soft gold I experience a sugar rush while sipping cherry lime ricky at Tom’s restaurant, how many hours of peace can I keep in my pocket? I wonder
as light is replaced by unrelenting blackness of night, with time
I have learned that you aren’t born with wings but take a moment and try to answer what seems to be a simple question, can we write silence? can we attempt to supersede negativity with possibility? The wind carries with it a hint of ache the way it persists, it could almost be another season in another place but I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere but here, as I experience a moment of epiphany that befalls like a rich blanket of mauve, you see
the key to dealing with obstacles is to remain calm for not all storms are meant to disrupt our life pattern, some are only meant to push towards direction
of dreams, yes it feels like I have been here before the sights and sounds seem familiar even though I haven’t set foot upon the ground; vision is the first step towards achieving the impossible.
If on a winter’s night a traveler knocks upon your door don’t open, whoever walks this late among the shadows is spectre, is ghost, a headless apparition someone who is no more than a distortion of light among creatures at midnight in the garden of good and evil. Can you hear the wood crackling when it burns? Perhaps it’s tortured by the song of witches, a lullaby for the newborn emerald snakes, above the moon is battered, its cries which flow from a crevice of lips similar to demons lurking in the mossy glen, I can’t describe the unbearable lightness of being without addressing promiscuity, I can hear an incubus frantically pacing outside the window his lust a nostalgic craving of rose sangria in Paris, I dare not part the curtains lest his eyes take in the shape of my collarbone soft and subtle in the semi-darkness now the dying flowers have blinded the clouds once more before dropping the act, before delivering the last omen tell me, would you still like me to open the door?
April showers come steady and soft falling from the vanilla sky, as indelible these poems continue to form themselves on paper for a week maybe more, tell me, hey, what’s the news from your bed it’s hard to keep up
my mind is preoccupied, so what if the wind is smoother than water? So what if twilight whispers, the inebriated and sober
intermingled, the serenity of the day is nothing compared to the adrenaline rush that writing everyday gives me, my words kissing the clouds,
a violet hue who do you need? nobody you’re lucky nobody’s around with a pillow propped on top of my bed I continue
this month-long journey as April showers come steady and soft falling from the vanilla sky.