The last act

The last act

Severed. The slippery truth
like feather, swallowed, peacefully,
rain and dust,
And as hollow as mirror, things held their breath,
with the splash of a distant wind chime
things died like echoes

Gone like vultures in fear of a birth,
the christening was the warm foam from the stains of coffee,
we left ignored,
And while the silence fell,
like a small uninhabited circle of lamenting stage-light,
the garish eyes of the protagonist sang in the din
and made childhood rye-field dreams float,
in the eyes of all

All was not lost. Not the war atleast. The riches flowed
down the streets in a grim crimson, the poor fled in the epiphany of joy.
The city lights lay hunger wrought that night, the underbelly like violins gazing,
at the burgeoning moon, with new-born waters learning to swim

The druid, while dreaming the strangest opulence,
metered and sewn, into words, a creaking door
severed its hinges in full view of insomnia-stung-red-eyed-god.

The ovation was loud and clear.
And so was the lull. The asphalt waited till the last act.
And then died with rain.

Tangerine nights

The image melting into mirror, the doe eyes gaze like the lone drop of dew
of night,
silhouettes, chasing, panting, claiming at the top of their voices, there are shadows now,
drawing eyes,
red rooms and films in repose, of more orange shadows than silhouettes, moonlit
till the curtains and applause,
And outside, a lone leaf has grown on the bare tree to the song of the sparrows, hears the wails from the window, of shadows captive,
dug away from the girl in the orange scarf, taken, shaken and strung

broken echoes of these thinning walls,each have names, rhyming with the sound of silence, comfortable
and listless in wait,
of a time when birds circle, in and out of clouds, and cobblestone coffee mug
shuns all souls and indifference of the street,

The matchsticks speak, of the daydreams and landscapes only words could paint,
a smoke ring cirles the fly and a blue neon halo beckons the photographer again,

An orange shadow of windowpanes and cars, flailing specks of mud, imprisoned in the picture,
the girl’s almond eyes gape at the shutter through her tangerine scarf,
the shadow stolen, and the clock still ticks unevenly same, a dungeon of dreams draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

The silhouettes all agthered, leaving their swords and words behind, and gently crept walls

The pictures had dried and the amber sun ambling in the horizon shone in unison of joy, as the shadows flew back to the toes and kissed her almond eyes, the blue neon shadow was already drying,
in a dungeon of dreams, draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

cellar door scar

cellar door scar
A night, weighed down into existing,
by hazel clouds without tears,
turning the moon into a nail-clipping at their behest,
There, the illumine finger of the night,
moon-drop engaged shining ring finger,
the sun lay beneath the hazel cloud asleep,
the cushion of oceans abound,
yet the rising was in the wake, a sleepless pair
of eyes reddened in fraught remedy for life,
It was only the taste of ink, thrown into the sun’s mouth
by the frayed-coat poet as the fountain of his pen
flailed, impotent and frowning at the brightening sky.
The smell of an old yellow crackling notebook then,
And he remembered to look down
The boy’s eyes told stories undone and unheard.
The sun, looking through lashes and bleary eyes saw the scar
under the belly of his hazel cloud,
and then the one torn into the asphalt below.
The poet escaped to his cellar door, leaving another scar through
his frayed coat, leaving time alone on driftwood,
yet the poem was now a wondrous spider spilled like ink on paper
no longer crackling but faking apart.
The boy’s eyes still shone and the poet was proud of his scar, looking through same lashes and bleary eyes that the sun did.

The Dozing

One where the nest fell,
and then the shoe followed suit,
followed by another,
quite uneventful, the day said as he sipped
on rain in full view.

And the dust gathered in no hurry, drawing
a sheet upon the time lying deceased
as the distant window blared advertisements
for watches.

The ageing floorboard made no bone of the
pain in his shin,
no pain was worth his voice that creaked
in silence and wait of the apocalypse,

The oracle said it would save the day,
and sleep would be restored.

Confidante

I like talking to walls mostly,
and find mirrors under their skin,
They don’t smile much,
or scowl when I turn,
like a coin waiting on the sidewalk
still on spin,

Their ears are yours alone, for
a moment atleast,
Wail, shout and howl as you may,
these walls haven’t yet learnt,
to stalk your words to the feast,

A feast for strangers,
whose mouths are tongue-less
and hunger wrought ,
gobbling all you say,
not a single morsel dropped,
just another sun,
unborn in the dark,

But how long will it be this time?
before the writing’s washed off the slate
and the wall?

How long before the wall
shall hold again
your mirror as bait?

Your words are naked now,
making their way to all
roads and ears abound

Only because you looked
within and never
without…

Its a little cold inside this womb you've kept me in, strewn like rose petals
on the grave I had set aside,
for none but my dreams, a well dressed mannequin
burnt hair by hair and a little plastic heart stuck in freedom talk,
and then the placebo comes knocking like the opiate man.
hoping you're inside, stuck like hair to a sweater worn just
before the endless brood and television glare glue ravine,
and you thought every rapid was going smooth,
much like the ocean you had never seen, but heard fables of,
its waves crashing and mumbling into your ears,
sweet nothings and dreams undreamt,
but your gills are now sold and dressed with the half true diamond ring
some man hopes to turn his girl into wife with.
The lastI heard, you had learnt to play 'big eyed fish',
and sing along too.
But now look at you, a motion picture stilled by just
one glance at the mirror.A likely fall into half cooked bliss,
no poison tree or nibbled apple to blame

blind dream

the ash of the cigarette , spread on the ground
like earth's grey hair, strewn in an order only He,
the deranged, and the myth can see,
The hurried flurry of your fingers and the door
slammed,
you said i was way past me
and a little too far behind to appreciate the view,
Well you said a lot of things.
Lest you disappear, I feed you with care and fodder,
I am god and so are you,
I have stared too long into the lake to know the difference.
And so I jump into myself again.
I drown.
And then I'm awake,
having wet my bed yet again.
A real nice shiny dream i bought today.
In exchange for my eyes.
Lest I sleep now?
or dream my blinding dream forever?