An endless expanse, gleaming sands

stretch out, as Infinity

in the desert of my heart.


There is no time,

no time to be lost.

There is no time,

no time to be gained;

in the name of all things

worthy of winning…

Won only, to be yet,

lost again

in the winds of Time,

in the unsettling grain;

in more timeless spaces,

deserts of

undying hearts.


Today, once more

I wish to be alone.

Today, once more

I long for the silence

in the corners of my mind,

as an untamed river,

to exude:

to exude in the interplay

of Light, her darker


I long for the silence

to paint in a

Nothing Black,

the sobbings of this soul.

Stars as Atoms


As one who has touched

the face of Death,

As one who has drunk

from the cup,

sweet venom, of Life.

As one seeking


in the mirror, of all Divine;

the ship has long since


in waiting, to drown.


Now I am free,

free as a sun-ray, from

a sunlit sky,

free to float

in the ocean of




Unbound Travel

Half a century, I travelled East

Treading pathways; trading

thorns for smiles.

Time was melting in her hands;

Warm, with no fire,

it was burning

and melting, as wax

on blades of grass.


His eyes are made of frosted glass,

No light enters, nothing escapes.


From your gravestone, I pick flowers:

Flowers harvested for springs to come.

Lamps, dimly afloat in a crimson mist sky.

A quarter of my life transcended North,

then dropped back on swollen grounds.


A thousand salt tears, I travelled West!



Left of the Left-overs

I sense I am full…so much
in bloom; anxious to pen
all strayed voices, wandering
the winding mazes, split by
crevices of consciousness.

But I’m solemnly empty,
laying bare in the vacuum
of an infinite valley:
She marks birth, death, re-birth,
Hence she imitates home for now….
the ‘now’ that followed ‘then’,
so long ago!

The ‘then’ saw me clothed
in garments befitting anyone,
but my sorrowful self;
my woed utterance
being nothing but a plea,
to any entity, familiar
with the language of my
dormant, cancerous eyes.

The ‘now’ is lighter, devoid of lies.

The Bird of Love (takes flight?)

Pity the fool who claims
to have fallen in love;
to have fallen in love
with a fool like me…!
What shall you gain,
except for a desire
to reflect on yourself
in the name of love,
in the name of a love
that is true in YOUR world.

And, what shall you gain,

than a desire perhaps,

to deflect yourself,

to despise yourself,

in the name of a ‘love’,

true only, in your world.
This love for a dame
As wandering as I,
As gentle as I,…
As ‘deceiving’, as I.

Though yes, of course,
I never deceive for the sake
Of deception,
Or to settle for some other
object of affection…
But there’s nothing here
you would like to own;
Not even this heart:
this lump of flesh,
this vessel, of blood…?

My blood a life,

a life not mine,
only to be shared,
never surrendered
And never given away:
Given away, so as to
render me lifeless!

This heart belongs,
truly, to the one,
Who strives not
for the sinful bliss
seized in the chimera:
a mistaken feeling,
of possession.


“Be mine”, he says.
I say, “Be yours first.”
He says, “I AM mine.”
I say, “So am I.”

He looks at me,
eager, “So are you, what?
“No, I am mine too,
just as you are yours.
My madness, for me;
My laughter, for me.
And what could you share,
but only a few hours,
hours by the clock?
You share your body,
But your eyes block me out,
Block my passage to your soul.”

Taking my words
for a passing remark,
for a poet’s thought:
fleeting, yet haunting;
He tries to convince me,
“My soul is yours.”
I answer,
“So you thought to give me
what you want for yourself,

the least?”

A wise bargain indeed,
coming from a man
too much of the world;

a world, strange indeed,

to a stranger as I.

Litany of the Little

You are baby’s breath,
Burning incense, a rising flame.
You are me, and I have no name..!

You are the might
Of all seven oceans, all together,
All at once:
Salt-water, that drowns some,
But keeps many more alive.

You may not be the rush
In my crazed adrenalin,
Nor the laughter of a drunken night.
You are not possession, the lust thereof.
You are not flesh, the saline taste of it.
Or perfume that scents a lover’s hug.
Nor are you the moisture of skin,
Or reflections in her iris
Witnessed by my naked eye.

I may be you,
Perhaps a relic of your past;
Else, a glimpse of what more you are.
I might have been the valley
As she beholds Nature’s offerings;
Nurtures, unbiased as a Mother,
All travelers that come her way.

I may be vision, I may be a flower.
I may be the time-keeper,
Giving up my dearest hour.
But, I am no baby’s breath,
I am not the Sea.
No able giver of life…
And though, I am a bit of you,
You are all; I’m nothing, and only me!


“I asked her how it felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied….”

I asked her how it felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied....
I asked her it how felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied….

….I made a box for myself; Well, I didn’t quite ‘make’ it on my own, completely. I was assisted by others (including my mother, who at the time thought a box was a good enough space to be in). And what’s worse: I started LIVING inside this stupid box, and perhaps ALL the time. And what did I turn into?…An almost corpse inside a coffin-like box.

Now I’m breaking free, from the nuts and bolts of metallic, mechanic conventions. I am breaking free after years of scratching at a supposed coffin, so many times being convinced in my rusting heart that I WAS actually dead! Thank God, for the first beam of light I felt on my face…

And you know something? ———- I am now grateful for being in that box then. It was so beautifully decorated and that too, just for me (or so I was told), that at first I felt guilty for wanting to break it, and to break out of it. But all those experiences taught me many precious lessons of life, jewels that I wouldn’t have been able to claim otherwise!


I shall highlight here, the top two:

First, convention DOES (begin to) appear beautiful to the one ‘locked’ inside it, after a certain point…
And why not? —————–

Those aesthetics have been conditioned so in the minds (of the majority), as these very minds begin to forget that not everyone (including themselves) has to adhere to similar parameter(s) of aesthetic. And those who do so, are for the most part just being disloyal to themselves and to the entire human race in turn.

Second, the one striving for freedom must be equipped with adaptability skills.

i. When you’re trapped in, you learn to survive against the toughest, most unwanted conditions (provided you recognize being        involuntarily trapped).
ii. In the (later) process of breaking out, the same survival skills help you be creative and to persevere, in devising your escape                      route!
iii. Once out, the free bird doesn’t get things sent down from Heaven for free. She must struggle hard in all kinds of weather, and                    have strong wings to fly long lengths and tall heights, and to stay vigilant in case she might get lucky enough to find a small flock.


But simultaneously, she ought to be aware so as not to burn herself out in the scorching sun, and to make home in whatever the journey allows…

       For she knows, nothing within the journey is permanent, other than the winding journey itself!




Lunar-face Talks

In a way,

your concrete ceilings, let your

wanderings away from the wonders

of the godly intoxication,

of the wine in the ‘Di-vine’:

Pure white celestial of Her Highness:

Full Moon, face half in shadows,

With half a frown above

Her astounded, grey eyes…

Ungodly concerns of most mortals

Down below,

Mar her worried concerns,

Else veiled in willing disguise.

The man in the ‘hu-man’, doubtful

Of the wine in the ‘Di-vine’ embrace,

Causes her to weep, saged

By her utter disbelief

In the ‘truth’ of their lies!


Hence the concrete man-made,

Raised on grandly, god-like premise!


Written: 14-05-2014





























































































Screen of Burns

Something hastily burns

In the birth of this mist,

Some fast-rising smoke;

Resemblance of an aura

Of a scenic skyscape, an expanse

Over an endless sea, meditative thought:

What we never do, and to what we ought.

Just as clouds that kiss the Moon-face,

Floating on a breeze, forever travellers,

Crossing same paths, familiar lines,

Finding something new in every embrace.

Better to lose at times, but to lose with grace!


We have lived in this concrete, plastic-fibre place

Enough, to know the organic value of things…

What good is after all, a reality, constructed

Within walls of stagnated, un-growing thought!

The real, as surreal as the ideal itself,

Not to be contained in human brain boxes;

She just is, let her be.





Struggling to conceive a non-visual  God

In the nucleus of an eye, clouded, stained;

Battling to lie to the trauma of Life,

She makes love to a barely surviving

Fantasy of Death.


Pull out the plug now:

Let me breathe in another sphere,

Even if the breath be yet another sigh:

I insist, pull out the plug now!


My heart, over-fried in the oil of your affection,

Lit ablaze by an insatiable quest,

Feels such a mess!

I wonder, how and why it beats!


You know well, to teach a wanderer to stray.

What must belong nowhere, ought be on their way.