Lotus Thoughts

And Love stood there, unflinching -
By the rickety door that night
When I - perfumed in your repose
Smiled, bathing in your light
She said you've bloomed into a Rose.

Just as the spiraling winds - and men- that
Slowed down, and some lost their way
Turning to behold the sight of you,
I recoiled, told Her a Rose, pretty as it may -
My lover is a Lotus, that is who.

Love gathered her silks, silently-
And looked at the moonlight stitch
A tapestry through the window on the wall.
Cleared her throat, "That simile, quite rich -
Do you know that roses are in my thrall?"

I looked at you once again, more sure
This time I did declare in a loud voice-
Have you seen my lover? Have you seen
The layers, the disenchantment, the purest choice?
And to call her a Rose, you're still keen?

Love sat this time, outside - not in-
On the floor, with her posture intact.
And in the moonlight, she shone
Isn't the Rose more disenchanted, in fact,
She asked, with the thorns, in a raspy tone.

Unable to have these little wins, unable to
Break your wall, I vowed not to speak
To Love at all. I turned my face around-
Love smiled again, this time almost meek,
"I concede," she said and frowned.

And from my reverie, I woke, fingers numb
And I saw you again, teaching me how
To make smoke rings, as I barely held
The cigarette, and your fragrance with a tinge -
Of nicotine, I found myself asking-
Am I that ethereal too?
Am I a lotus too?

And a tiny ounce of regret
Refused to evaporate.
You arose.

Verisimilitude

On days like this, when little sips of unsavory tea
And a few drops of Scotland's best --
Fornicate with Barsan Laagi,
On days when I cannot even make friends with sleep
And like trespassers I let night
Tiptoe through my windows - with her, little fireflies
And forty other trespassers, silent raindrops.
They leave behind the boundaries of vowels and consonants,
and the warmth of verses and metaphors
and poetry.

Light beckons, hark, the unwanted Stranger!
Night runs, its aides asunder, leaving shadows and afterthoughts
And a little glass shoe.

I see myself, dark and fragile
I inhale desires, bright and robust,
I dream of us, looking at the rains, enveloped
In the garb of succinct conversations
And limp biscuits, lost in the depths, devoid of character
Not quite unlike clouds-- that we pledge to watch together,
Not now, darling, someday.

Sometimes, after all is gone
The windows and the nights,
The fireflies and the ragas
What remains is a silent impulse;
Verisimilitude.
To make meaning of empty things and broken words that are
But incomplete for me, without the letters to your name
Such words, like love and peace and home .

So,
Sometimes, I let night walk into my home through windows,
To float around me like a bridge to the country of dreams
While I fold your thoughts and keep them safe,
On your side of the bed,
Where no one sleeps.

Not Green

The tree is dead, today.
Spread across the limitless horizons
With its infinite wisdom, and charred branches
It stands, several ants escape
Their lifeless abode, lest the tempest
Of silent sap and flamboyant pollen -
Blows them away into nothingness.

You were there, the quiet whisperer -
Climbing its stony boughs, sprigs cradling you
You were touched, weren't you?
The fire lit its insides, but left you
With tears ablaze, and a strange leafy musk
That you will reek of, whenever you lie -
Or lie next to me, possibly medicinal smelling.

They will come in hordes and swarms
It will rain a million tears.

I have the axe here, see, saw too -
Dead trees must lay forgotten.
But what do I do with the stump
With roots clawing far beneath, holding on
And here in my clinic heart, the storms
Rage on, creating new dunes of sand.
Yellow and brown, not green.

Alas

It was the picture of a broken bottle -

Jagged, a victim of asinine actions

And acrid smoke, lilting by the dark drapes. 

Or maybe it was you, with napalm poetry

Burning red, green, white; who knows? 

Let's wail tonight. The picture, you, I - 

The darkness of the eyes needs washing.

In yours, under mine, and the picture? 

It is but sanguine, you say. My eyes hurt. 

Let's sleep with each other tonight.

I, you, the picture - no, it must remain away

Fetid little thing, not apposite in our havens, 

Of fragrances and musk, and entangled arms

And Alhaiya Bilaval 

You are gone. Or is it I? Dark grey skies,

You cannot see the moon. It burns red. 

I burn red. 

You burn red. 

The picture burns red.

Alas.

Spring is Here

The moon was a little restless last night-
He tried, several times, to peek through
My window, where I sat resurrecting
Dying symphonies - Running antiquated
Needles of joy through dark unseen sheets
Bloodied patchworks, clammy with sweat,

Dusty with neglect, with no outlines, no boundaries-

Much like our silhouettes that we found
Intertwined as we lay writhing in newfound throes
Of lust, passion and fruition.

The moon was green last night, I saw-
A little peek, when you stood on your tiptoes
To kiss me a last goodbye. It fumed, ran leaves

And strong winds on my path home -
Its acerbic rays could only massage my skin
As I danced, on music you filled inside me.
The stony burrows of silences, the frigid caves of gloom

That I had all known so well, stood all bathed in green- 

Sprouts of little conversations dotted their walls

As I vowed to nurture them, forevermore.

And as nights rolled into days, and my red eyes
Matched the discarded scripts my begrimed pen wrote-
The moon told of its jealousy to the sun,
"Why must I roam the night skies alone?"

The scorn brought clouds, and the sun powerless-
Only shone in glimpses, as the wind took over
And gloomy rains enveloped my world.
I however sat, in my room, thinking of our moments
Cocooned in safety and wonder- and music-
And wrote but three words, "Spring is here."

For the Once 14-Year Old Girl

You have grown up now.
One glance, a fleeting one at that
Upon, perchance, a wintry tree
Wilted frosted flowers in a November garden.
Ignorant are the fools who crush, who do not see
Looming minds, lamenting souls
Looking, ululating, lulled.

And I see you, standing aghast, is that hope too?
Lights rushing past your gleaming eyes
Witnessing- and is it all that the heart could bear?
A stellar sky falls prey to the silent smoke.
You see it engulfed, the world moves not.
Stationary it is perhaps, as aghast as you.

Blooms are for kids, you realise-
Everything is dark, lonely and cold.
My hand is warm, and you can hold it.
You have grown, but you are still the same
Vertrauen Sie mich- unconditionally, beyond.

... Even though I know your secret.

My Friend Left

Things are different now-
Perched upon my own fingers,
Lest I write and regret
I heard my greatest friend tonight.

And Darkness spoke of loss-
Of little flickers that make her run,
Of the majesty of her reign
All in one swift breathless whisper.

"Are you tired?", she asked.
"Of course," I murmured.
"Grayer skies, bloodier wounds-"
"-and jest, " she completed.

"Jest? Jesters tired of jest?", I inquired.
Darkness looked away, perhaps.
Or maybe I did. I looked elsewhere -yes.
"Is that why you live with me?"

She smiled, a tiny nudge on my nape
"Truths are joy, truth be told."
I looked aghast, as my greatest friend
Abandoned me too - I heard footsteps-

I crawled, with closed eyes
And Light embraced me, tight.
They all laughed at my disfigurements
And I couldn't find my friend again.

My shrieks filled the chamber-