Let me think..

Let me think a while...

In my life's garden, today more bleak than a wasteland,
Which branch sprang first into blossom?
Which one died first in the withering of passion?
When, in what agony, in what season,
Was it drained of its vital blood?
Who went for the jugular in the throat of the flower?

Let me think.
Give me time to think...

A Little Black Bird..

To a Dear Friend,

Thank you for the courage you give me to speak..

On the grey skies
A fluttering black sparrow
silently descended
and through some back door
came to my bed
and settled on my chest
But hearing the pounding of my broken heart,
returned to the skies!

My New Job...

I watched faces; slowly the buzz about the place became accustomed to my being. There exists a stark difference to what I have left behind; a feeling of purpose exists but an unexplained loneliness cohabits. I miss my Cubicle, I yearn for my afternoon tea, I covet the melancholy, the camaraderie, or maybe I miss being ME.

But isn’t this life...

There persists a constant struggle to move on and readjust.

We carry within us a blinding gap that aches the soul within, we try desperately to adapt to the changes.

How long? A brief time or a long tenure... I don’t know.

Its different, it’s scary...

I just watch faces.

Me...Part Deux

The one never to tread the beaten track is me
The one to take new, outlandish turns is me
Never will you understand these odd, offbeat things?
Wherever be the fire, the one to get burned is me

Enough is the little dew to make me wet;
Enough is the little flame; the one to melt is me
Enough is the little blow to make me stagger;
Enough is the little wave; the one to splash up is me
Enough is the little journey to lead me astray;
Enough is the little help; the one to recover is me
Enough is the little morning to mortify me;
Enough is the little moon; the one to pine is me
Enough is the little space for me to pass through;
Enough is the little hope; the one easy to please is me

Your little grief and the one to sob is me;
The one who cannot bear with your gloom is me

What is it like spark in your body?
The one to glitter at the tiny reflection is me
What is it like wakefulness in your blood?
A mere touch and the one to be perfumed is me
What is it like grandeur in your grace?
The one to hesitate at a trifle is me
Your lovely face is a garden of colors
What sights I capture though a winker is me

I am not a stone, immune to the season’s mood
The one to be stirred by a gentle breeze is me
If alone, it’s difficult to move a step;
With you around, the one never to be tired is me

Afraid of the thick dark night is me
The one to spread like desolation is me
Who is it that calls me from across the river?
The one to dive into the swollen river is me
If infamy is my fate, let it be so
The one never to take timorous steps is me
What do I crave more than your company?
The one to live and to die with you is me
Having told everything, have you severed the ties?
What should I say, for devoid of the gift of gab is me

The one to design varieties of pages is you;
The one to paint your choicest shades is me
The eternal, infinite Time that passes is you;
The one to halt at every sight and shade is me

Happier Thoughts..

Nostalgia has always been my source of happier thoughts & sweet memories...

The scent wafting from your body
now holds my senses captive,
warming the silent ambiance of the room.

Your cheek, moist with sweat,
brings to my mind the first showers of the
nighttime rains.

The half-burnt cigarette between your
fingers—
showing traces of your lipstick,
makes reality a twirl of smoke.

You’re silent, I’m quiet too,
while in our hearts we both debate—
if only words were not the sole recourse.

Unworthy Gift...

If I offered you my heart,
It would be dishonest of me.
It has stayed with others.
It has marks of many fingers,
Drops of happiness that flowed from lips
of others
Have left dried stains under its rim.
Still, I would give you this unworthy gift
If only I were not sure that you too,
Satiated, will return it.

Me..

I am not the light of any eyes, nor of any heart the peace or truce.
A friable object of no use, I am but a dry handful of dust.

Not at all a lyric's life-giving sense: having heard me who should act on this?
I'm a wail of ruin in the wilderness, and the voice of a blazing heart's distress.

Color from my face has long been gone, since my one true love was snatched from me.
I'm an autumn-slaughtered garden trapped in my own spring crop's stillborn loneliness.

Nor am I any soul's beloved soul, nor am I indeed any rival's rival:
I'm a fate in flight to its flailing fall; one tall flatland turned to a vale of tears.

Why would anyone chant a requiem, placing some stray florets upon this tomb?
Why would anyone shed a tear over me, a crypt of helplessness?