The lights go off,
neurotransmitters failure.
Someone around me shrieks ‘Watchout!’
Too late.
Headfirst I go,
diving in,
a split second when nothing matters,
Gravity defying,
until someone gathers,
me up.
The blackouts,
are my fits of euphoria,
the sinking Concordia.
Darkness often blinds,
fears sublime.
I fly and fall,
body and all.
Fall and awaken,
visibly shaken.
From a deep dream of peace,
I awoke to find no Angel.
Only curious minds,
all caring and kind.
Woe is me!
For no peace I find.


Our story

An unsigned card beneath a shut window,
sprayed with little perfume droplets,
still waits
and the wait is eternal.
For the love way back became just a shadow,
of moments basked in moonlit glory.
That might as well,
be your story.

A half burnt letter smelling of rose,
written tediously,
in verse and prose,
still radiates,
a charred odour
and the stench is ethereal.
For the passion became so huge, so real,
that no longer the heart could venture to feel.
The ending words say ‘I’m sorry’
that might as well,
be my story.

This poem stays close to my mind, always.

The Mundane

In her eyes, the desire to win hearts
the limitations of being a frail woman.
And as she passes the powder puff over her sunken cheekbones,
a rolling diadem sparkles,
outlines the blinking charm beneath her forehead.
Arched brows, defined lips.
So often called seductive, so tenderly kissed.
Bites them and clings to the mirror.
Gives herself a steady gaze.
‘Who’s the fairest of them all?’
Walks through the corridor.
Confidently sinister, roughly appealing.
Climbs down the oak carved staircase.
Staggering steps, a dizzy vision.
Lustrous night black hair falling on ivory shoulders.
Makes herself a vodka shot. Old school.
Gulps it down her burning troat.
Lights the cigarette and watches the smoke rising, in childlike awe.
Shuts tight the angel eyes once again.
Mystery personified.

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Armed with words

You love to play with words,
twisting and squeezing connotations,
in contexts that play havoc,
through my thoughts,
amidst subtle distortions.

You love it, don’t you?
To see me,
struggle with the difference,
between implications of
verbal necromancy,
and all the while that you left me fuming,
over uncomprehensive inadequacy,
I played along,
and threw words around me,
when I had the crossword all wrong.


We make so many allusions to ‘life’,
calling it a journey,
through tempests and calm sunny days,
and often a tale in a book,
with its sea of characters and shades of grey.

I add another one,
for life is one long masquerade ball,
and the masks never come off,
so while we go fooling all,
we are each nearing perfection,
the masters of camouflage,
our own selves we do enthrall,
like a temptress,
the mistress of seduction.

One long parade of pretentious men and women,
feigning benevolence and malice alike,
dancing to tunes in our minds,
joining others in close proximity.
And if perchance the mask falls off,
they will talk, laugh, sneer and jeer,
and leave us alone,
singular in a deprived vicinity.

We love being,
objects of desire, attention and obsession,
stay mysterious to the rest of our own.
And while each one of us would want to throw away faces,
we wouldn’t.
For our partners,
would still wear a pretext.
And beneath a mask though we must seek,
we can never do it,
and we couldn’t.