Sitting on black stones,
to feel the global angst,
and doing nothing.

Good or bad, time
takes revenge. You will
always blame self.

Like grapevine,
everyone wants to climb the
moon in pitch dark.

Talking of the character
and morality, a smoke
rises. To arms.

Butterflies, and
waterfalls. I stand between
the two to take a
look at the last clouds.

On the date palms
my future lives. The pinnate pair
rips apart the poems
of merciless summer.

Burning hands will-
pick up the dented heart.
No more blood was left
in the twisted veins.

Coming out of the woods,
I hand over my moons
to you, for a blue kiss.

Drop a dime, after
you have loved. I am returning
back to my school unflinched.

Euthanasia, you have
been targeted. What is realism
of murdering unasked?

Do not repeat the
same truth. It becomes a lie.
The Moon has been stabbed tonight.

Standing on the roof
of world and
searching god in sky.

The ground reality
appears, if you don't read
the scripts.

Only visible are faces
and hands, which twitch
and tremble, if you―

forget to celebrate the
death. Shrapnel's will remind
you, what was certain.

The obituaries are
farce. This is self-adoration
because you are alive.

Buying curtains
was cheaper than building
a house.

There was something
metaphysical. Nostalgia? A dumb
pain comes on the surface.

Was Existential love
important? An architect has fractured
designs. A fossil wants to embrace me.

Captive thoughts will
revolt. You want to find yourself.
I will drink Yerba Santa.

These are black days
in purple cubes. My intimate poems
were still nascent, accounted for.

You become Mimosa pudica
in the cusp of liberty. You have emptied
yourself by sending god to other religions.

Tell you, I may forget me,
but will not forgive me. When I left my coat,
our ancestors were already gone unspoken.

After going back in my
frame, I let the dark set in,
to wait for your moon.

No more, or less, you had
plucked my image to wear it. There was
no litany, no contrast.

And a prayer makes
the cherry tree bloom, and
start shedding like my poems.

It can save us, at the
foot of mountain, when rains
come, and we are climbing.

The shadows will meet at
horizon, drowning in water
of moon- to morph into a vault.

The creativity had been at the best.

Facing first-ever realization.
It is not play-thing. Moons
come and go. I have become a rock

You were far away from
a happy valley of conscious blooms.
Nobody will climb the sun.

Do what you love to do.
There will be no afterwords,
once you receive an exit award.

Between the hills,
were you ready for a
snakebite ritual?

What was the choice
between a triangle and
a silver dewdrop?

The birthmark swells
after taste of venom.
Silent prayer fails.

Priest or thinker,
you wanted a moral engagement.

Moon shined,
You were waiting for a
prophet or saint.

It was pointless,
boat will not arrive. Standing
on beach, your journey ends here.

The sun was too hot. The
umbrella conceals the face
of a motivator. Nobody wants
to touch the fast of dead god.

Irisis shrink. Hole becomes
larger. Now I cannot hate myself.
The blue jewels have become lumps
of wasted stones.

You start diverting
the green death of infallible,
and become real.

Circles under the eyes
becoming darker―
perforating the disaster
of moons.

The arcs will take a trajectory
going nowhere. Cannot reconcile with the
untouched depths of
failures.

Not enough was night―
rest, for death's pain.
Faraway the toes will meet
the pulse of glassy lake.

Defiant brows will come in
defence of the fight against tall
lies. You want to act till
the end of the play.

I do not sleep.
I do not move.
Waiting for the bell to go.

Walking in mental
fog, you become
a swaying tree.

In mistiness
one becomes lonely
like a blackbird.

Hollyhocks
would wait, till
the sun comes out.

December rain
brings the gift―
of sleet on lips.

In my blood book
what was your
divine constant?

The arithmetic fails.
a black hole― ***** in,
the brilliant stars.

I was collecting
the rare salt, from the
abandoned beach of eyes.

Poetry was the flesh,
bones. Heart stops
beating, when images drop.

We will not speak
in dark, when the moon
was rising in the east.

Not lived to die.
The road will not end.
Every word becomes a milestone.

A feel of inner
kiss. Premonition shatters
the calm of blue lake.

The blooms of cotton
tree caress my face for a
comeback of spring.

I know the distance
between you and me will not
cover the bare legs.

It was an explicit "I"―
deeply flawed.
You had started hitting
your peers, asking them
to hate you.

Psychopath?
Mea culpa, who would not say?
Kindles a tender feel―
when you love a pink rose,
not uttering a word.

Scared, my tremors
start like a leaf. Cannot hold
the pen. Very quietly
I print my tears.

Thirst, mouthless―
I drink from eyes.
Earth beware― the crop has failed.
Rancher was going―
to commit suicide.

Give a nudge.
Tears are falling from
the leaves. Who was crying
under the bo tree?

The lonely eyes
searching the moon in
vast blue sky.

The moles impinge
the shell, not to become
a pearl donor.

The beautiful nails
scratch the paper, to rewrite
the soul-searching song.

You throw the stones
miles long, to avert the
thoughts of bleak garden.

Nightingale will not
come back.

You were not listening,
when I said―
" After offering my head,
I will go into deep sleep "

Coyotes were gathering. The
prairie was on fire. Under
the feet, the smoke was bursting.
You had started eating your toes.

Carrying the burden of unsavory―
reputation, the books were not
telling that time has stopped
and no lyrics were left in religion.

Sometimes in night, I will
hear the soft notes of a flute,
when, moon was rising and
muse will come and I would ask

" What was the need of inventing the hell? "

Sleeping on pavement―
looking at the stars.

I try to reconstruct―
the manikin, you had
flung away like―
an antique plaque.

We were supposed to
talk as equals in this
moment of truth.

Was that not― the
trading in flesh, when you
ask the stonecutter to make
a shrine of an unknown god?

What was your grand
design O love?
Touch my face, I am
burning like a coal.

In a massive blast I
will break into myriad of seeds.

Dissecting the moon
to know the incredible,
in half light, I will
pursue my endless pain.

Rebirthing of illusion,
becomes a curse.
Unreality was supreme
I want to touch you in fog.

The condemned darkness
has a hidden secret. One day
the prophet will marry the
stupid truth.

You betray the wrapped
emotions, shying away
froma second life. Silence
steals the words from
your lips.

I will ask the sky
to lull the hot moonlight.

The last moments
float on unspilled words.
I will give you a call―
from body to body,
to reach my voice― across the time,
zones and history.

You wouldn't dream me.

I'm not ready to give up. A
moth takes the flight― strikes
a hot teardrop shaped light bulb.
Brick walls hold back the sea.

The rage attacks a black sun?

Why do you think of
vanishing without a cause?
Hairless the moon cries.

Pink peony waits for the
sick gods.

Vocal cords vibrate.
No vowels come out. A naked
speech becomes museum.

You walk into a trap.
The self-search must start
after the accident in hearth.
The fire has failed―
to ignite the thruth.

No more questions would
come. The shrine will receive
all the answers.

The system wants to know
what went wrong to
identify the protégé of crisis?

You know mimosa. It behaves
like a sensitive person. Touch it and
its leaflets fold together like
greetings and bend down asking
to exit.

The violence erupts. A god has no say.

Put a candle under
the rose bush.
I am going to draw blood
from the moon.

See my body has become
a boat and you are the sea.
I am an opus Dei
and you are my deity.

We mist and we rain
on our frailties. The drama
unfolds, when we grieve
for the butterflies.

Who was taller than
our sins? Like pixies
falling from the skies.

To begin again,
the travesty of understanding
life.

A mole, a warton
the face of fractured psyche,
I will never know you.

Generations bleed,
to feed the corpse flower-
of fraternity. I go
insane.

Going beyond the
touch of your life, I begin
to shred my forbidden
sin.

You know what
was classic love, to burn
like a moth on flame.

Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white―
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring―
down languidly.

I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.

Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid―
poems, working.

Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.

Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.

In blood and grass
lies the snowman.

I must not look at it twice
after the spring melt.

The black magic has failed.
A mooned night will―
not reflect the real intent
of song's proxy in dark.

A lethal mix of twilight
and solstice, squats in gloom
to listen the surrender
of shine.

The glorious name, ultimately
drops the hint,
of profanity, written on wall.

To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.

I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.

I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.

Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.

Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.

I walk towards you―
till it hurts.

In moment of nemesis
I set you free,
and deceive me.

You look beyond me
and become blind for the road.
Life starts drifting away from
each other to discover the meaning
of truth.

We may not meet again,
behind the faulted moon,
groping for light.

You always knew―
I was not you. A miniature
vice― religion apart,
had become a river between us.

I won't swim again.
Buddha smiles with alacrity.

ShareShare In Quiteude

Understanding―
the sexuality
of clock.

Time moves
the hands, of past,
the present.

The future
belongs to no one.
This poem, cosmos.

Standing on a rock
near a temple's dome, the
bells chime voicelessly.

For a dark secret, passing
through your big eyes, the colors
want to believe in cryonics.

Freezing the dead body, of past―
face intact, making a heap
of wins, the bundle of desires.

Only skeletons of empty
words hang from the windows
where chattering sparrows used to sit on sills.

Give me your skin. I will
were that till end, creaseless,
hanging from the bony arms.

I am still alive daring the
tomorrow to walk through me.

How do I remember
you, I ask grammarly
between life and death.

You were not very
keen to know,
what I did not say.

What I saw was a
moonshot, restrained by a dig in.

Ultimately I sniffed that,
nobody wins in love.

The bona fides are at stake.
The mob was not a validity,
stranger than real.

Collectively I will gather
the stones to throw on god.

The road warrior was dead.
There was no path.

It does not exist now,
the conceited gait
of my fantasy.

It was not a cakewalk.
You may be coming-
for a daily ritual, but a
genuine thought suffers.

Tipping over, I will
say to me, accept the day
and become a recluse.

The violence
of the lips don't give a respite.
The glazed teeth under
the mask become red, spitting
the blood.

For whom you had
saved the moment of surrender?
The moon will move around
the planet, not to crash.

It was a slaughter
phase. Moon was rising. The stingers
get ready and ****** game starts.

I see in dream. A Viking
warrior is taking off the helmet. I ask
can you decimate an ant?

The greed bites off the
head of the coin king. I want to
bring the unhealed poems of love.

He has been spoken off.

Sometimes I feel,
it is time to go.

Sun is preparing to depart.
After sometime moon will arrive.

You want to stop writing
and shut the book. Enough.
All things said, world will go on its way.

You change the clothes,
alter the ***,
exchange the god,
and refuse to die.

Nothing, but the ***** game survives.

Robbed―
of my aloneness, by
an army of ravens―

thoughts. I
meditate and weave
your face―

in muse. My
journey begins on a
mist scent as the moon rises.

What more you
want, than the silence,
before the bell tolls.

You cannot carry it
to the end.
I will not put up any claim.

Walk through my heart
in snow.
I will paint a yellow moon.

Come October, I
will weave the wreaths of
smoke, to invite the piper.

Where would you
lead me under the autumn
fall? My name holds nothing.

I will not be last
word in the novelette of a legend.
Stories come and fade.

This was a gamble of
the incarnation taking its first step
with no birthday pain.

A beautiful smile to react
with my voiceless noise, the book
of an unprinted epic of grief.

Your love and my love
of occult embraces. Partition of the
unwritten pride of saga.

The sheen of hidden
power explodes. When you touch the
moon, it burns your hands.

A mascot tramples the
ship.Journey was half done.I am
gathering the smoked remains.

Was there any end of
night for a sage sitting under the
banyan tree for penance?

Collecting the chips,
Reading. The Republic, I fear my.
fear in daylight. You wear my cloaks.

Perhaps you may not meet
the end. The travelogue has unlimited
halts. I will surrender to the moon.

Life demands too much.
You want to undress the tree of Ficus
Religiosa. New Buddha will not come back.

This command was
unpunishable.
I will not accept the defeat
from life.

You were mending the shoes,
of god. My vase had
broken. This is my burden,
I carry the body of a poem.

Waterfalls. I stand in
midstream. Throw my walking stick
in flowing stream. Will heal
the dead legs of a thought.

The belly is full of crickets.
No light. The unending muffled
trill. The pebbles fall in nightmares.
I seek the ending of blue marks.

The air fills the lungs with your prayers for me.

From uncultured to
subcultured, I was made to―
feel responsible.

My coffers remained
empty. The nightmares had
squirreled away my peace.

And I was always
steeling for a reply. Embracing
the dark woods for support.

Everyday you changed
the mask to become innocent,
separating the sparks from the ash.

Paralysed like sea―
anemone without water. The
sea had receded in haste.

It was very edifying.

When you shut the mouth of
the oppressed―
the mass grave speaks.

The widow was still mourning,
after the causality of my belief,
my psyche, my rights.

You don't make me, then
how can you break? What
was the height of fall,
will you let me know?

The volatile words are now
losing their import. No
real, only cosmetic display.

Let the celebration of
bold death begin.

Walk warily.
You are in crisis zone.
Moon will not rise today.

*

A bare phenomenon
of shedding the
fears in dark.

*

Now you will confront
yourself
to take revenge.

*

Like nocturnal
flight of a bat, to find
the mate on plum.

*

Hangs a tale of
a squirrel, waiting
for a Buddha.

Your time
was not my time.
An arrow had pierced the space.

There was no past,
no present.
Only I had given you the future.

And now
a volcano will not sleep.

When the death
arrives from sky, how
will you welcome it
with broken heart?

When somebody is
burnt-out, would you collect
the ashes of poems?

The proceeds should go
to barren fields of human mind.
May be, a ****** marigold
bursts out.

There was no beggining
no end.
Only an apology
for the credence.

The predators were
*****. Peace comes
when you go
for war.

The angles guide
you to roil
under the stones
unremittingly.

Deep and black were
pains, making an arch to give you
presence of roses.

Portraying the slavery of
love. No need of heart's moon.
A thorn whisks away the wish.

I warn you to bury
the knife along with the burial of
my poems. I have never seen the blood.

You sit at a stanza
break and won't
start introspection.

This was your moment
of deliverance.

You bend down
to **** the flickering candle
to feel the stings.

A myth
wears a veil to ******
the sun, when it was
saying goodbye to moon.

This is mass cheats
the time that wants to slip out
from back door.

In next life, will
you recognize me by
my stumblings?

I do not write about something
or anything. You will
not knock at my door.

I will be pained, if
you sweep the floor, to
tout the unwritten song.

I sing wordlessly. Even
the echo will open
the waning wounds.

My body, I give to
hawks, to escape the
elegies in the death well.

Even the night
will bring the pillow
for the dying moon.

Impacted in lunar surface,
the centuries of dust and
dust of centuries, were willing to surrender
orange love,
hovering over your trajectory.

The second death will not
come, flesh consumed.
I will draw your profile
in white desert of psalms.
Life was a big funeral.

Footprints in snow were vanishing.
I have come afar from the
home. I don't want to leave
the traces of my missteps.
Time was very venomous.

The roses will not die, never.

This paper lantern in lake
was in love with you.
The water oscillating,
not the taper.

*

The panelled remains of―
walls still hold,
your signs. You would not
come back?

*

Apparitions gather―
to bid goodbye to the moon.
A flame of the forest
was due any moment.

Strangly enough―
it was the most silent night…
I hear the footfalls
of your absence.

There was no affair
between you and me. Only the flames
of frost I was born with. Blue
roses still keep a ritual
of counting the deaths.

I didn't touch you. The
placenta still dragging the neon
light of the womb, the
sins lay bare.

The land mines exploding
one by one. Maimed truths speak
of the communion
with unseen gods, who will not come out
in the courtyard.