“You don’t have to cry”, not to me, she told herself.
Category: Poetry
RECOVERY IN SEPTEMBER. (poem)
They moved towards the dark,
matching his slow steps. He, humming
his blurred laugh, more blurred
with feet.
In memory-GAYA. (Poetry)
I search you in your
Faded bricks,in your
Colours incomprehensible,
Your barren mornings,in
Those sly nights.
Your pretentious laugh
Talks of that past
Flickering in your corners,
But those eyelids hide the
Present;shattered behind
The dusty mist.
AGE.
Melting strides of a little Neon, synch with the fading Brown.
That CLICHÉD CONTRAST.
Of a Clichéd Contrast We heard while growing up, that of Dark and Bright, that of Silence and Noise. It is years that will make you feel, what this Contrast you hear of really means. Place: Audrey House,(~160 years old building) Ranchi, Jharkhand, India.
DAILY MARKET.
Legs are trained,to hault at Calls, ‘Bees Rupya Paao,’ and tongue,to haggle over each price you talk of, ‘Das me Dijiye’. Days trained these shoulders to brush past, ‘Thoda hatiye,’ and eyes to spot the fresh of all, ‘Taaza nahi hai?’ It’s the sound that holds the story, never letting you hear what sits behind.
‘Mamma’s Coming Soon.’
‘Bare-hands are a habit,’ I said, while taking off these bangles you brought me that year,when I had two hearts inside.
YELLOW-STREET-LIGHT
She leaves the trails For her
Young whites,Vacating all slow.
Maybe these Nights are
her last.
GUNS and ROSES.
Bragging her history of blood.
