Monday, July 15, 2013


Lost in clouds, when back to senses,
For it wasn't too late, putting,
And in the way of it, admitting,
When thought, were my resemblances.

Never was there, his inner bent,
Though, somewhere haunting,
And dust-ups, partly resolving
Ready, to come on another argument.

Here is the time of flow in fetters,

where matters deep run and float,
Often to resolve a buried play, 
to function and dote.

Where have these matters been staying?
An attempt lost in brazening those out,
Forgiveness does not work anymore,
Those clocks crumble and clout!
He, blinked the eyes as if drawing hers,
Moving in images, imagining,
The beats rested, yet pounding,
Nothing was much to say in whispers.

So on he went to pour tears galore,
In the seam, the space seeing,
For that, the eyes pinning,
In verity, he, somewhere offshore!

The Picture

The Mirror muzzles
the picture it presents,
The heart receives,
What it pretends.

Often I see
the picture inside me,
The razor removes,
The character evolves me.

The stigma annexed,
Crumbles with fever,
The want subsided,
Me, that raising-river.

Don’t want to mess
the gears I’ve got,
The stockades still little,
I play with fiddle.

The waves go
and dash the shore,
The depth sand bar,
I die for more.

May be, this I call uncertain,
Cause of the alarm I have:
The figure moves in me,
Bending the blight I have!


Story then leans forward to foretell, 
The mere glimpse promised to rewind,
The ways divided to consummate hell when own mirror betrayed the fulsome glance.
This seldom reached its desired Camelot,
She daringly sits with no edge to let.

She often puts up a face of honour,
In the morning when dew dispels,
It was for the drops of sun to whistle around,
Walking in the evening when it fades.

 This creeping claustrophobic culmination 
Flooded, still roll on to be parked,
Though skidding the ear-marked destination,
The fuss goes on like this to pseudo style.
I remember the past of wild hunts
when it was too easy to escape, 
when the holy basil surrounded 
the memories of many,
when I fiddled with my own map.
The day of moderns began
with the mighty shapes of alphabets,
the digits grew more dominant than petals,
Turned with these all, I join the rats.
In the race of recognition, often I come across with verve,
These fissure and yet I crave for the phase when all was abeyant,
That tranquillity, I address and eyeteeth: the fountain of this face, 
Still I dream, I chase.