Words from a Hell dweller  

Cries of the hounds of hell echo as we clash against

the shadowy wall of misdeeds.

Spirit world seems just like a deep overcast morning

that neither lets the rain to fall nor allows life to peep through.

 

While I walk on the floor that breathes with ablaze sands,

I wonder why I chose to depart.

I could have fought a little more with my anxieties

and waited for my beloved to give birth to my son.

 

Perhaps, the fact that I was a inured escapist, pains me more

for the Hell leaves no room for repentance

and no path to escape back to the earth.

 

Fate of a Betrayer

 

His sight has been like the fingers turning pages

through the lives of girls.

 

Girls to him were as unexciting as academics to a child.

 

Just the unclothed fairness of their skin as charming as

the aroma of a newly published book used to pull his coward steps forward.

 

The pages of the book have burnt in betrayal

and have set the base fire for him too.

 

He has a sword to fight but sword and smoke never demolish each other.

Collectively they triumph over him.

 

Love sits beside weeping like a forsaken orphan.

 

Enduring Nostalgia

1

Dirt circling from our back heels rise

and fall like the perpetual water-cycle

and nostalgia pants like a bleeding soldier

in a dead bunker,

craving for a drop of immortality.

2

Cows trespass the endless rice fields and

interrupt the afternoon nap of the farmers.

They chase them out and nostalgia runs

along with them to find a path that leads to the past.

3

An eagle taking rounds in the sky

unites the crows quarrelling over a torn bread;

a daily nostalgia forewarning its existence.

4

The horn of the ferry, and gurgling waters

chain me to my college days.

Nostalgia tries to peep through my sleepy eye lenses

each night before I dream a bit more about my future.

5

Standing in the queue for the office bus

my sub-consciousness tries to hunt down memoirs-

Sweet memories which cry and grief which laughs

through my labours to endure nostalgia. 

 

Tradition of Lust

 

Removing hairs of nature, through the branches,

the rainbow deceived my wistful wisdom;

turned me sightless to an assassin storm.

 

Removing locks her hairs, through her eyeballs,

a watery haze kissed me aloof;

turned me blind towards her concealed whims.

 

Like a pebble drop in shivering waters,

her sight brought in wrinkles in my blameless forehead.

 

My tides have failed to remove her out of my river.

 

I have joined hands with many canals each of whom

is leading a life poisoned by her touch.

 

She was a witch and I am now guest to the hosts

that give birth to assassins.

 

Each night yearning sounds arise and they never die.

The immortal caprice of lust become one

with the walking mass; envelop them during day

and the night once again hosts unvoiced movements.

Preserving The Dormant Bud of Love

Four years gone and on the verge of the shore

of my college life, a first year girl calls me.

 

She is too immature to ask me to stay back

and a beginner to fall in the love of a departing.

 

I wonder if I shall term myself as a gambler

with this mastery in the game of emotions.

 

A human still beats in me and the fact that her love isn’t compelling,

convinces me more, to stay back.

 

I can have my career here and perhaps a love too

that has the power to open up the dormant bud

of love within me.

 

I am to get the credit too as it was a lingering father in me

waiting to handover the bud to the right hands,

which will open its petals without tearing them once again.