Wishes..

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year to all of you

"For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for a lifetime;
Weeping may last for the night, But a shout of joy comes in the morning"- Psalm 30:5

~Φ

Her Seed..

She basks
  In her warmth
The seasons change
  Her dissolute sins
are December's own
  that stays with season
making long forlorn
  but not so soon,
I hear her sing
  her, amongst us
could sense the spring
  withered leaves
from ground,
  soar back to her twigs
blooms emerge,
  in minutes to follow,
the nascent ripe,
  I listen, as she
eulogize 'bout
  cuddling feathers
in her refuge
  And 'bout leaves in passing
Wind, making love
  all, under her sun.
there she stands
  as if on a stylobate
supporting colossal
  skies spread above
caressing few colors too
  on the iridescent bow.
Ah, forgive me, for I
  have no clue of corporeal
existence, but felt her
  as the tree from the seed
buried inside this pensive mind

Wake up

Rise and seat yourself
 Upon the grave silent bed
Care for an insouciant smile
 For the dawn, today.
Walk & look out of
 Mauve draped window
Sheath yourself with
 the morning breeze
Let it make tangents on your skin,
 I would soon follow..
Look down to the boulevard green
 As the daisies look up to you
With life...

Painter

I paint your dreams
  from inside cauldron eyes
while you confabulate I'd bleach
  realities to tungsten blue
yawn and yearn while I'd re-sketch
  dusk with burning sienna
you'd live a different dream,
  in my dreams, tonight
may be once, so you could smell
  the paints, with which I
continue to paint your life...

Untitled

I

Throne of Izmit,
 In love,
Surreptitious one.
  With spring she arrives,
To stay till fall
  A quarter's love
As 'twas
  This winter though
At his door step
  She stands
And so
  The December beside,
Structures of Byzantine
  Looks oblique
To her curves,
  Or so he feels
He lets them
  And leads 'em
To his ochre yard,
  There, under nascent
Turkish night's
  Dull illumination
The orgy begins..

II

Him. Her. The December
  Soon ochre turns white
White as milk. Virgin. White
  Under blankets of
Gossamer flakes
  Each takes turn
Revealing the
  Other from the folds
Of embrace.
  Serendipitously.
Kissing.
  Teasing,
With rose buds
  And lips.
Him Hers, Her, his
  Every streak of
Disheveled hair
  He clears off
Her face
  A kiss he delivers.
Kiss for a kiss, so does she
  And so the December
In between.

III

There’s no dawn.
  Not in this yard at least
Wouldn’t matter, if there so be.
  Whispers and moans linger.
Venus in act.
  Shy orchids bow
Frail petunias bend.
  Prince, he jousts amid pristine
Whites. Virgin red
  December, she smothers
Mahogany creaks
  Pearl drops of sweat
Plays pitter-patter
  On her forehead from his
Summer heat. Descends
  As she cleaves all over.
Blown smithereens
  Inside each other
Still they lay, entwined
  Night is not petulant
To souls in eurhythmy,
  to be kindled by insatiable
December again..

Providence

Clutches weaken
  Under my hold
Bodies glued
  In growing grip
Lips invade
  Seeking each other's
Killing proximities
  As they court .
Souls evade
  From present
To the sanctuary of silence
  How would I
Speak of this
  Succulent pleasure
And its taste
  If we continue
To suck life
  From each others
Lips and eyes..
  Breath escapes
Sighing petals
  And enters mine
Filling me as we pause
  Taking it in
I stare, at the slow
  Revealing
Somnolent looking eyes,
  Crescent too reveals
From under haze,
  And us,
As under,
  Holding still..
Consider not leaving
  This, as providence
he continues
  Architecting my demise.

Kill that mocking dream..

Night spawns
 A thousand thoughts
Each paired
 With a million dreams
In every eyes
 Behind crimson curtains
In the last
 Thousand one
And tonight..

Just dreams
 Yes, just dreams
A travesty
 Staged a million times,
Of it, as we speak
 In Neverland
We are, you said
 While its no more
Than the Atlantis.

White lies, white dreams
 A malady
And nothing more
 Am tired chasing it,
Aren’t you?
 Someday
We wake up to realize
 Or worst
Pass out in sleep...

Under the Joshua..

Seeds from sieves
  Of a pensive mind
Holds each a
  Joshua tree

One by one it
  Grows to bloom
Smell of which would
  Fill 'tis sanctuary soon

Alongside, in its shade,
  I see her perch, upon
Some blossoms that’s withered,
  Wide and spread

Adorned not in lavish taste
  But in pristine pure,
Milky white
  Gossamer lace

And there she waits
  With a little grin
In an unruffled posture
  Supporting, her chin

Answers, for many
  Only she could give
To ward off, many of
  My begotten grieves

Scathed by glow
  I trod along the swath to reach
That Joshua, emblazoned,
  Amidst others at night

Reaching her, with
  Shadows falling behind
Bourbon eyes, succulent lips and with what not
  she continues to allure this mind

Eons may have passed
  In this gap or so I feel
Cursing the proximity between
  longing to get close

Some sound of petals crack
  Or so she spake..
Her lips, her eyes and even
  Things around her spoke..

Staring at misted lotus feet
  On my knees, feeling
Shackles of silence around
  Diligently break free..

Ahhh, such is
  Emancipation, I need
Such is dream I long
  Could be real

Well.. the sun is back
  Where it started
And myself,where I lay,
  under this tree..

Rambling inspired by an 'image' from a friend's blog....

Love me less, hate me more..

Sum of all fears
 crawl over
gurgling noises
 from inside heard.
palpitation sets in
 and sweats out.
I think uncanny
 and speak weird.
fingers tremble
 and knees shiver.
vision escapes
 and the blur appears.
nustling sounds
 echoed hollow
words leave &
 senses deceive
appearing stark naked
 before all eyes
when best dressed
 In simple sinful touch
am estranged to myself.
 And you,
You continue to coddle
 while I asphyxiate inside
this orb of death...

Typos corrected and tweaked as suggested by a dear friend, thanks many for her service to proof read it free of charge ;)- Φ

Untitled

...And she urges me to write another
    forcing me out of sleep
nascent from dreams
    I scribble in hope,
perchance to make them real
    And with such nonchalance
I bury them
    soon before she puts
me back to sleep....


These eyes might someday
    will never open
And you may find
    this half writ piece,
to be read out in a soiree
    before a night's sleep
But enchantedly be kept awake,
    thinking about it
until she

..puts you too back to sleep..

R.I.P

Untitled

Transforming forms
 and translucent shapes
from within
 these crystal orbs seen
Colors foray inside and into
 the walls of this sphere
In array and disarray
 pictures flow,
but in silence
 Inside this church of images,
the temple of sight.
 Staring too long, too deep
Compelling noises inside
 the empty alabaster
to frozen still
 I enter these eyes,
Behind the fluttering
 Venetian blinds..

Marooned

Along the isles of Corsica,
  and in the sands
of Marseille and Nice
  I wander,
Inside a pristine dream
  Bacchanalian feasts,
a grandeur,
  of wine, of women
Fellow troubadours greet
  and continue their way
Reaching a saline quarter
  I seat my self upon
one of the many
  silences afloat
and think..
  The waves continue to ebb
Froths swell, bubble
  and burst
Whilst I scribble
  An ode, a sonnet
and a couplet verse
  imbecile contempt
sets in on what's been writ
  A head left ajar
to panthom thoughts
  washed ashore
Nothings strikes
  an inspiration..
Am marooned, I said
  under bleak luminated cresent
and bewitching
  mermaid beside...

Chrysalis

Gleaming morning light
  creeps through drapes
to tickle, waking us
  from embracing
the slumber..
  In the moistened wrap
with cheeks glued
  and jousted waists,
we stare...
  Arched back
of frail leaves
  encumbered by
the morning dews
  And Fall, he continues
To paint her red
  Leaving her lacerated
here and there
  An amorous
morning scene
  that grows steady
reflecting streaks of
  glistening chrysalis
In your eyes, the besotted,
  and home of my dreams..

Autumnal Catharsis

Symbion associations
 of entangled bodies
and not of hearts
   Hmm..
 Orbs of flesh
float around
 incising thoughts inside
exodus of emotions,
 finding their way
out as tears
 as it too would taste less saline
amidst reaching my temples
 As I lay drenched
with dilated eyes
 in the once vermillion
painted yard
 Now, the home of
virginal winter rain....

Numb

Sonance of silence
 devour you whole
inside catacomb of
 pungent sarcophaguses
An Ornated auburn seat,
 a posthumous throne.

Amidst unsettling dust
 of the cold damp tomb
That narrates
 Tale of once lived
pains endured
 and nemesis borne.

Under a tepid
 retreating light
eurythmy of sculpt
 as shadows seen..
While I, amongst elysian
 phantoms and kinsmen lie.

Sans regrets
 of mournful yores
embracing a perfect
 state of numbness
during life
 and after death alike..

Untitled

Uttering verses
 making sketches &
dwelling inside dreams,
 she allures
thoughts
 from depths of
my diabolic self.
hidden inside hues
 she reveals
sporadically
 as red, as blue
as mist, as autumn dew
 certain warmth
to a weary seeker
In his besotted eyes
 trepidity crawls
as he sleep-walk
 unmindful
of tremulous breeze
 whilst dreams rehash
even outside his sleep...

Stashed Sfumato

Drying, dripping tip..
  in moments
mastery revealed

  The formless
and spaces
  by strokes enliven

Plasters peel
  pastels blend
to revel the birth

  With such panache
framed, loved
  teased and adored

  (.. now.. )

Drying slow, dying slow
  stale smelling canvas
In your living room wall

  Amongst reals
wishes to usurp
  your escaping vision

for rework, a rebirth
  refusing to endup
as another sfumato in stash.

~..Sea of Whisper..~

Azure shells
 Blossoms and barnacles
Seek refugee in these salt
 Laden shores

In a beach far from this
 A stone grave,
The home of the soulless
 And cataphor..

Sables seen
 And requiem spread
Prayers from within
 White soutane heard

Among the froth
 And many others
That came afloat,
  a whisper

That sailed, silent
 Mid seas and
Bedlam shores; in
 Every salt and in every sand

   (..whisper..)

Reaching me, beyond 'em
 The mirthless souls,
By the second and rests.
 Arresting me, here, forever deep..

I lay here listening,
      still
 And a smile escaping my face
Unburdened by tomb
 Am buried beneath....

..to the Soulless..thanks..

..Shadowed..

Daylights and moonlights
  Conglomerate my existence
But wouldn’t devour me whole
  Black under incandescence
And gray for the night
  In between them
Lies my illuminated landscape
  That separates realms
Of dark and of light.
  My innocence
Seeks light but he recedes
  And the night, she, chase
Along the lines of shadows
  A trap set labyrinth,
A creator’s spell
  In the width of straw..
Unseen and unnoticed
  Here I am

  ..The penumbra..

Inspired by bendatha..thanks to you

2..3..5

Reborn out of
 relations and fallacies
We are what
 Odds and evens are
Some whole, some rational
 Numbered days
On an exponential space
 Infinitum and voids
Completing existence
 Everyday, a result
Of certain yesterdays
 Which series amongst them
Am I - that nobody counts on
 in this god's sacred

    Fibonacci...

Blind

Yes I profess, color does
  means different things to
me and you
  you, soiled , an aberrance from the rest
In your words colors brought to light
  You, beholder, the kindered soul
shalt see colors not known to eyes
  hear and feel empty moans
Some parchment of color you are
  I do not know
that can fill inadequacies
  in us fallibles, in our rainbows
relieve us from our shadows
  relieve us from the haze
lifeless pictures we are or so we act
  dismiss certain vibes 'fore
and some patterns we miss
  reveal ye, the color, to us
for revelations we seek..
  Whos blind I do not know
you who lacks sight
  or our deprived insight
May be blind we are
  Me and the rest of us
from the day born to day dead
  wake us from this dream
tell us more, nocturnal guide
  what color is it and where to see..

Amongst stars and quasars..

Gargantuan facades
ostensibly shrunk
From here, clouds, above
But amongst those many
somewhere a sweet home
with small portio
that smells of blooms
from garden below
there, like a stranger
she stands staring
at vast expanse
of million star-lit home
like pixel on paper
small and little
In those eyes I see them glow
Epoch many, I wait
Amid cosmic shelves
to streak past
dark loomed skies
hers, someday
to be wished upon..
the wish of
a dying star..

Molotov cocktail

  Her eyes serenade
as she inch forward
  Heart beats ebb
to eternal still
  mere presence
to tarnished self
  a glistening floss
she leans
  across my temples
to whisper
  those words
that makes men frail
  in her utterance
i dissolute
  from flesh to ashes
where i stood
  she still stands

  murmuring

"Amore..amore..per sempre.."

Mothman Prophecies

Dirty old rags;
   Soiled skin
Canines showing
In his eternal grin
   In my nights everyday
He comes
Speak not words
   But of wisdom
Things so many
He utters
   Then walks away
Leaving new dawn behind
Nights pass by this life
   - A remnant of dreams
Rumination of thoughts
To seek answer
   From him, the mothman
The mothman of my dreams
So hath come
   And speakth
In language I don't speak
"Th elo ve yo u seek
   Is ha rdt ofind"
cruciverbalist you are
if you reveal them best
   but when you would
this prediction be late
and you be left behind..

.. Ichthys..

Norman's Creek..

Oscillating transitions
 I become anything but me
like ghost from my dreams
 to the shapes you've ever seen
quest that never completes
 recoiled self as senses retreat
Heart and mind at odd ends that never meet
 Real and surreal like
Phantom silhouette converge
 and diverge as weak atoms
quantum self dissolute
 in all axes
where I stood is jus an empty space
 genesis sail with Noah's ark
with roots leading to this seed
 and that dissolves to molecular warp
lost deep in this thinking - I stand
 under autumn touched stem
towards sun-set end of Norman's Creek.

A scape from my dream...

Some Season..

Some wild smell..in the crisp morning of a spring weekend from my boulevard. Its the first week of the spring, yes I could smell some mild orchid and damp soil. Dews that encumber leaves are fast drying up so on the grasses and from bushes. The warmth and the heat under the sun was unusually good, I’ve been under the same sun my entire life but never felt this way. There is something different about this spring. May be its the first spring after my cold winters, inside and out. Something is reborn, but season looks good and I'll keep this scribbling closer to that. If you feel the same about this spring probably we are in the same place, passed each other a few hundred times, down the alley near La Terrace, garden side of Cinquintannire or even at the jubel park..somewhere or nowhere..when surrounding is full and filled, I will be almost invisible and may be you were invisible as well. Good to feel non-existence.

Dads with sons and daughters, teaching cycle or football a common sight with the spring so is people running around with lesser clothes..we know what it is to get wrapped up under heavy fleece and jackets. I see fewer clouds in the skies, the haze is there though. A royal orange fabricating the edge of the inverted azure bowl, the aura is breath taking..leaves me at loss of words and alone on my sixth floor balcony facing the garden..some color, some smell and some sight….me, fathomable phantom ..am sharing this with my ubiquitous self.. slip of thoughts amid all this in search of something..and back to the gripping reality..

I run down to the park carrying some stuff along..spread out garden under pale blue sky with ash streak haze scattered ..I stretch my self on the mat, am pampered yes and i deserve to be..am not answerable to anybdy..I feel the satin blades beneath and the smell of orchids and tulips..head phones whisper Johann Sebastian's A minor (Triple Concerto), a 1730 creation, but its jus so mild enough to let chirping and noises to reach my ears. I am an ardent newtonian..I lay under the peach tree (no fruits yet), imagining it would sprout, bloom and ripen and fall closer to my head..no am not lazy..its respecting nature against abysmal time. Hands search for something in my bag and feels the fullness of the apple..bought that noon..so tasty ..Yes sinful indeed. Something far and above catches my eyes, straining, I raise my sights further into the hollow skies..streaks of gray lines splitting up the skies..clouds of dust like scars appear..hydrocarbon fuel and soot with oxides of nitrogen and carbon monoxides..or probably kerosene based fuel types like Jet-A1..whatever it was, it holds the same science of looking good and bad for everything else..in no time my skies weren’t one..they were two.. book beside with marker.. pages flutter with untamed breeze.."Treatise of great minds" by Leonardo da vinci..borrowed paper back, unread yet. The reality is too good to be true, so colorful as in caravaggio's works, realism or naturalism that can be felt by deceived eyes. Thoughts like vagabonds, has left me long back..mustave crossed stratos and feeling buoyant in the thermosphere..

Orange spectrum is brighter and closer now..Sebastian still playing..way down below with the body, Sins beside, pages still flip..reminding of a state different than dream..

Une ode au Amblève

A sensuous touch on the nakedness
    Drenched in sweat
And we are wet
The heat in me as sin it flows
    As I plunge in you
This flesh of life is soaked
Bodies become solemnly one
    The cold dampness and mounds felt
Take us beyond this very step
Bodies quiver with cold embrace
    Under grasp of teasing finger’s rake
Sound of love
Heard yards away from woods
    Whispers of ecstasy
Like gyration of life from cosmic sea
Little aroused to be just a dream
    This spring bath in l'Ambleve stream

The Ambleve is a tributary of the Ourthe River, wholly contained within the province of Liege. It rises in the Hautes Fagnes region, then flows westward until it joins the Ourthe at Comblain au Pont.(Amblève River). This is the place where I go for Cave Exploration..she looks beautiful this spring..unforgettable trip.

Scribbles of the dead...

A garden where no flower sprouts
   Strewn with withered and dead blossoms
Sanctuary of silence along these years
   Damp smell of dried up tears
Blue tungsten lit garden
   Gloomy, dull and scary
Pale, still and little life
   Creeps that entwine & devour
All those in its way like love
   Moon, she hides
In the leafless branches of the willows afar
   Dust carried by the west gale
Reach this mauve stone throne
   Upon that spiders cocoon
And four feet’s own
   The stones that speakth
Of him who lays beneath
   The flowers you left then,
Dried, intact and unique
   Below the English cross, moss green
Reminds of the time you came
   And for one last time seen..
A dream revived and written - Vinod 11 Apr 05

Mort Subite

Stains of venom slide down
 My chin and drip
Our lips depart as you drift
 We evade conscious
To embrace stupor
 Stares locked deep
Alluring souls inside
 From moment paused
To having breathed
 Eons slips into furrows
To vanish
 Venus glistens
Under incandescent moon
 In these arms, reveal
As buried faces retreat
 'Am transmorgifing carcass
With your growing distance
 Each step whispering
A different requiem
 Grim reaper pries life
In your absence and in
 seconds, delivering
sudden death..

....... Thin line of difference between life and death

One Last Time

Confessions made
Across the heart
But in no impulse

Is it what we share?
When we refuse
To speak

Words said
Moments undone
And expanse of growing voids

May someday be dust
To dust
As ourselves will be

Yet I shalt confess
For one last time 'fore
Finding deep solace in sleep.

..confessions straight from the heart....again and ....again..

Rain

A thousand dews and
 Few thousand more
Like death and plague
 Upon crestfallen you descend down
An adorable display
 Of Joy and life
Eurhythmy of beings
 In your rhythm divine
Footsteps heard on
 Streets and sheets
Drenching souls
 to salvation
That stands frozen
 With eyes closed
As you taste saline
 Flow of a million temples
Before reaching house of pain
 In every touch the touch of god
Felt in you, pouring rain..

Sound of Silence

In depths of your silence
  I find chaos pour inside
Unsettling thoughts about
  Things uttered
Separating souls in quay
  And souls sunk deep
Smothered by shadows
  Each in some mask unknown
Beseeching to free
  As myself beseech
Hell is where I am
  Standing amongst my many shadows
That pantomimes my story
  To all and to me - in silence
Let reckoning occur before
  I further dissolute and deform
By your mellifluous voice
  That devours silence
And your incandescence that
  Will resurrect me again
From the dark..
  Delivering from holds
Of ghastly devils
  To the arms of an




  Angel.


To your silence....

I (M/N) Complete

Like e_bodim_nt of sca_t_red
clo_ds and contin_nts
D_spairin_ly coupl_d

Ev_n my nam_ at o_d
ends where y_ur's
start

I kn_w not what
it is to f_el l_ke
to be fu_l...

In ev_ry you
I will
be

Nonethele_s wit_out
You I'm
Int_restin_ly _ncomplete.

Twin Devil

From deep slumber awakening.
  long silence, a silver voice
So a long pause-full stop..

Reckoning has happened
  across abysmal time
for me and for you

No different dreams we were
  but single solemn truth
In dark; In light

Words you breathe
  you will create
and so hath writ

In those, hides phenomenon
  And noumenons, eons ahead
of those works I did..

Your sanguine black eyes reflect
  that path of light - vision they call
Something I forever seek..

To bendatha... my sweet little devil..

Missing a Stranger

One by one
  They all leave
    Some known and
  Most uncanny
Now a stranger
  She leaves
    Whom I know
  Couldn’t remember
Whom I see &
  Couldn’t feel
    Whom I'd listen
  Couldn’t talk
Stranger she is
  And will be
    Under many names
  Lies, unblemished heart
Stranger, hers, that is
  In due time
    She’ll soon be forgotten
  Or so but let me lie
For truth so many
I possess - bout a stranger
    Belowth pile of clay

When I die..

Watchmaker dream

10 pm.

Present..Skies shed another skin. Day rests. Darkness fills everywhere..dark alone prevails. Vast and hollow..eternal.."the dark". Dizzy head and aching temples long for it..day has been a carousel ride..so has been life. I need to sleep tonight. Permanently.

With weary eyes I seek and fall on the half made bed..sinfully inviting..like your lips..in the willing cushion that takes me in, I surrender. For a moment before I dissolute into feeling nothing, I stare around..dark..retina filled with it and nothing else..long tresses that curtains my crestfallen face when am on your lap that is black...bla..now bleak..vision fades to a thin line in between the lids as my eyes seek solace under a skinny layer.......peace


...12 pm, Oberstrasse, busy as usual. Wet cobblestones echoing footsteps of passers by. Wind caress my neck..chill it is..a look right towards the crossing. School of Cadillac, Merz and Alfa Romeos. Engines still hustling and bustling. Rrrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrrm. Unsettling noises..Herrman Tags Zeitung, the news mart, hustles. Wind taking turns with the sheets of paper..sound of dry papers, distinctly heard from where I stand or may be, I hear them..Apotheek on my left and the Ruhe Cafe show little life.

I stare, stare at my reflection across the road at Uhrmans, the watch shop, 160 years old. Steiger, who looks too old for his age, from inside the shop waves. I walk towards the array of watches on the display. The Swiss made and few other vintages. The Audemars, Breitling, Bulgari, Rolex, Patek Philippe and so on.. Steiger, knows them all by their make history. I derive a sense of feeling that I am standing in the heart of Clockmakers Company, in UK. Oldest horological museum in the world. The shop smells old.Rusty. Stale smell of leather and sounds of thousand hands ticking. Some symmetrical.some synchronized. some frozen..like mine

His wrinkles on the forehead and round reading glasses speaks alot about his age...stripe pressed cotton waist and double tweed coat. Cream shirt and bow. 75-year-old horologist, meticulous from his mere appearance. Steiger. “Kann Ich Du Helfen”..rusty voice of Steiger breaks my cold stares from the shelf. Even before he finishes, I place my steel base leather strapped analog on the desk. Hands frozen..at 10 am. Victorinox, a Swiss made, white base & black dial. Frozen. Time frozen. Hands held tight. They don move anymore, its arrested, but not hand cuffed. No ticks. I continue staring at the shelf, while Steiger meddles with my watch under a watchcase wrench....

10 am on my watch, hands ticking as I jog towards the station. I need to catch the train. Another day. Missing a just zipped past rover. Am in hurry. So is everybody. Life no less ordinary..everywhere..shops, stalls, bus stops, cab stands, coffee shops jus everywhere. 10.12, it says, Victorinox. Time flies in the morning..does it rest later in the day..never.

Staring at the watch I miss another pole. Signpost reads ‘Oberstrasse’. The road I pass by everyday. Adjusting tie and jacket that has come off my shoulder to the quick morning sprint. I wait for the tram. Time doesn’t. Am Waiting.., those few minutes looks eternal. Am restless. Gazing and staring at familiar faces, armpit held newspapers, Starbucks cups and croissants. Far beyond behind the sweeper, it catches my eyes. The antique shop, with hand crafted wooden clock piece. Hung outside and above the entrance. The shop is closed. Name board has come off the rails and covers the clock, partially. Reads ‘Uhrmans’. Corrosive stains on the glass window & graffiti. Nothing is visible inside. Hmmm yes, read about this street, one of the towns oldest. Read it few days back on the Leuten Zeitung. Some place it must have been years back.

Some sense of belonging, may be am a regular wanderer in the morning. I claim nativity for those few moments I pass by.. Hmm but we don’t have time to repair watches these days. But some things are stuck to your skin and can be shredded. No not necessarily those inches deep. Hmmm some satisfaction. Some pride of being born in a different time. Superbia may be. Tram hasn't come yet. Uhrman board...rattatat tat..on the walls..hmmmm. What a pleasant morning breeze, I finger my hair from the forehead.

Brought it down before my eyes to read time... its not ticking.. 10.12 still.

Nail hitting thought about the dream I had last night..Hands frozen..this time mine..time flies. Am lost in world that separates real and surreal…….still.


..Rattatat tat.

Saturnine

Sanguine little face
 Oval and young
That's chiseled
 To the depths
Of a cursed soul
 Time slips past
And will continue
 In whose treacherous spell
Genesis be old
 Kingdoms and men be
Moss and dust
 But what shalt remain
Point back in time
 To memoirs, grass green
That face amongst
 Many masks unveiled
Now, thought
 Only a thought
To this grim faced


 Saturnine..

Fullstop

Juxtaposing contrapposto
of thoughts as words
Fingers at odds with head
scribbles on their own
on a parchment
with blood as ink
for every two lines writ
one, it strikes out
shredding 'nother parchment
like skin to start afresh..

fresh with preludes
and only to end with it
nothing beyond
In a book of
sophisticated words
an aberrant text
with exclamations
and questions
that leads to nothing
but a chapter's fullstop .

Lady of Shalott

Lady of Shalott and the lost look.. .the state most of us are in..

..different rivers..different destiny..

Pattern of Change

Life is an exhaustive series of events, each of which is tightly coupled with 'change'. Does this change have a particular pattern to be studied and understood, well to an extent it can be. This is not some wayward post on some gibberish topic, neither it is something meaningful. Surprised and confused, don't be, the more we try to contemplate on what life holds for us at the cross roads, the more we are mislead and deceived. At a day as it comes, yep sounds hedonistic, well I wont go that far calling it hedonistic, its more of living a sensible life.

~GOD (Grand Ol' disseminator)