'Persuasions' Or 'The Wise Paranoid and the Foolish Braveheart'

Following the movement of clouds
And counting the stars in the sky
Letting the night breeze play with with my hair

A friendly dog on the street
A handful of melodies from simpler times
Stories woven inside my head of strangers passing by.

Maybe the search for happiness isn't all that elusive
As we would like to believe.
Tragedy is only that many unshed tears weighing us down,
And joy that many introspections away.

You bubble-wrap your heart and put it away,
Picking up the pieces later seems more tedious.
Emotionally more pragmatic, you say wisely.

I nod, and wonder what it would take to make you believe
You can't swim with the dolphins if you don't get your feet wet.
You can't fly among the eagles if you don't spread your wings.

You may break
And bruise
And tell me that you told me so.

You know they say it is better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
You say it's a cliche.
I say it's a classic.

The world is Schrodinger's cat.
Look up possibilities in your dictionary.
Forgive the past, and look the future in the eye.

An awkward poem to convince you
To come out of your nuclear shelter.

We can battle the modern dragons together,
And break into the corporate castles.
Defeat the plagues and the witches together.
Claim the entire world for our booty.

Maybe I can be your bubble-wrap instead.
Maybe we can walk off into the beautiful sunset together.

On Turning And Returning

Time travelling in mental highways,
He adorns his past self unselfconsciously
And not just see it through sepia-tinted glasses.


Unlearning the weary world's diktats,
He rediscovers the happiness of half a myth ago.


The grass has been losing its green over the years,
The crick in the neck thus not pure sentimentalism.
Rendered necessary by an age that he did not understand,
Or an age that did not understand the likes of him.


These journies are conducted everyday behind countless glazed eyes,
The witch Memory assists with her protean charm -
Wiping out the unnecessary and repressed,
With as much ease as putting up blow-ups of the happy and peaceful.


Unfortunately, the frequent trips -
To and fro,
Past and present,

Come and go,
Live and relive -
Spoilt the time machine...


And now he hangs in a limbo,
Trapped in his own head.

A Song of Promise

Every night tossing and

Turning. Into a new leaf.

Falling in love again,

Swathed by love songs.

Music diluting your face,

Forming blurry contours

Of my perfect lover.

A few tears of redemption

And a watery smile of resolution.

Grabbing every skein

Of long broken promises,

I’m knitting me anew

An old love story.

Tonight I wait for dawn to break.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

The Swan Song

Pink smiles and crimson blushes,

Run-of-the-mill songs

That evoked virgin emotions,

The beauty of the shameless sun and the shy clouds -

As they played out their hide-and-seek

On the never ending skies.

That all things move in a circle,

Is a truth lovers deny

In their colorful nights and colored days.

So what if all good things come to an end,

unless all things come to a beautiful end?

Post Mortem

Spirits hovered over her lifeless body,

In much the same way the spirits moved within her

During her last minutes.

Blindingly fast.

Streaks of light to the lazy eye.

Coursing the length of her veins

As her heart slowed down to a lazy pump.

In an upside down manner, she probably saw heaven.

The clean slate the gods hand out for every new soul-

Was, in her case, a case of undecipherable scrawls by the end of it.

Business Trip

The last abuses of an angry sun fall on the reddish fields

Before the pearly moon comes by with its soothing silver.

And he lies down on the soft earth,

Tracing himself in the starry map above.

Far away from the faceless urban army.

The tiny apartment did not have enough cupboards to contain the monsters anyway.

And on rainy nights,

The metallic smell of guilt seeped in from the cracks.

Here, they roam free.

Tame.

Without poisonous glands.

And as the balmy breeze blew over the smiling face,

It only carried heady scents of the paths ahead.

Gestations of the Mind

Thoughts drizzle down in a weary head -

Trying to catch them in word shaped cups,

To freeze their meanings,

To erect coherent sandcastles.

Fingers shake over virgin paper -

Air writing, mind juggling,

And the cigarette ticking away.

Awaiting the music to descend

of that teasing muse,

playing hide and seek in the corners of the mind.

If catharsis isn't a drug, what is?

To put away garbage in pretty colored boxes

And tuck them away under the bed and into the closets.

And lie in muted unconsciousness again.