talk

The house speaks to me.
about missing you.
about resonating.
with noises you made
my name also somewhere.
about waiting to get combed up
with your hands,
like a child. going to school.
about breathing. the air
you had breathed. and touched.
it speaks to me.
this Sunday.
when i'm home for once,
hoping for some company.
we're trying to talk.

Silences

Silences have been marching.
They have travelled
from the nights to the days.
Mornings are now quiet.
And they have moved

From the quiet streets
into well run homes, shops.
From the advertisements
lurking in the corners of newspapers
to the headlines.
From the pauses
to the songs.

Silences

Silences have been marching.
They have travelled
from the nights to the days.
Mornings are now quiet.
And they have moved
from the banks to the waters.
From the quiet streets
into well run homes, shops.
From the advertisements
lurking in the corners of newspapers
to the headlines.
From the pauses
to the songs.

the swing.

On a moonlit night.
I stand on a high bridge made of worn out rope
over a deep ravenous river.
between two chasmic mountains.
Waiting to fall into the dark abyss.
and hit the water. black.
breathe. sleep.
As the wind hits from behind.
like a thick sack of dry hard mud.
the bridge gives way.
I hold it tight and swing along
to hit the stone of the mountain.
it has been standing with open arms
for centuries.
I keep my eyes open as everything turns red.
and hold the rope tight.
I am not scared right now.
I am alert and awake.
Waiting for that next thrust of the heartless wind.
To ride it like an eagle.
And fly into the dark freedom.

nap

just up from a nap,

on a day off from work.

after a long time, i am caught.

in the mirror of an uneventful afternoon.

the quiet hollow knocking from inside.

to know if the outside activity has subsided 

for it to safely come out in private.

and talk to me.

to ask where we are headed.

untitled

i am wandering through a dark night
lying on an emotionless bed.
trying to come back to the truth
through poetry. and floyd.
it becomes difficult as i close in on you.
truth stands in a corner.
like an incompetent pupil.
while you hijack my poetry.

old friend

there is a dilapidated curtain
hanging on the window in my room. dilapidated.
filtering the fledgling morning sunlight, free
of worldly encumbrances. unhurried.
the light coming through is a stranger to my room. nonchalant.
It works like water though. Blends in without qualms. diffuses.
Fills in. It is music. buddha's meditation. dissolves in the quiet.
the curtain is silent. it has not thought about happiness.or meaning.
it is my friend.