It was an idle evening
And I was sitting in the lap of Past
Resting my head on her chest
As she slightly moved her hands through my hair.

I told her about....when I painted
With colours and brushes....a colourful world of mine
When canvas and sheets were drenched with bright colours
Bright colours like red, yellow, green, orange and so on.

But now...I can't even recognize them
They are lost in some dusty drawers
Somewhere I can't even remember
Now I live in a world of black and white
White pages drenched with black ink...

Did I lose my bright colours?
Or am I just homing in this black and white world of mine?

Life is mainly

about the in-between

the past is history

the future is unseen

The ink is my sadness.
The paper is my devotion.
The poem, my love.

The idea is my inner thoughts.
The words are my feelings.
The meaning, my infinite anxiety.

The beginning is a story.
The middle is a resolution.
The ending, a travesty.

The pencil is temporary.
The pen can be disposed.
The writing is forever.

If I'd known that the last time I held your hand
Would've been the last time
Then I would've held on
A little tighter.

I'll hurt myself
before you get
the chance.

The wizened old man told me -
sustain the weary with a word
for many a one has none
to bring love and light
into the blight of their dreary days.

I asked which word
and through a wan smile
he said - you figure it out.

lost in a world that doesn't exist

but you existed with me

When we dream
we take down a book
from the shelf
of ourself