Broken house

• 

Like a spider i weave
My life around the corners
Of the house
I once lived in.

Memories hidden between
The cracked walls
My fingers scrolling through
the broken photo frames..

I hide behind the fallen pieces
Of what once stood tall
And strong.
Gathering sunlight
I seek to live in the glory
Of a web
Which is my own..

I look at the mirror
and see
blots of ink
which were
never bothered
to be washed away.
I was used to it;
like the blots,
you became
my habit.
While
you weave a life
without me,
I go on
to weave
your absence
in a rhyme
which
never ends....

Morning mist
I hurry my way
through the lanes
where I
used to sit
listening to stories,
which now
accumulate
like dust
on an
empty pathway.
Old conversations
bring back
the melodies
of songs unsung;
the chatter of
the leaves
speak to me
in a tongue
which I
once understood.
I stop awhile
and
listen to the dogs
bark at the birds;
the chirping of
sparrows,
a voice
long forgotten.
I look at the sky
and suddenly
the voices 
stop calling out to me.
I step on the leaves
and run
towards
the horizon.

Rhyme

Sometimes
the dewdrop
wants 
to be killed
by the sunlight.
They call it 
sacrifice
but 
I call it 
a rhyme
weaved 
in the skies. 

I see the leaves
flutter
as my hand shivers
holding on
to the
half finished
tree
embroidered
on a towel.
You seem
to hang
on the branch
like a bat
whom everyone
including myself
want to understand.
It's a habit
or a compulsion
I don't know
but
the leaves crumble
as I fold the towel
hoping
you would fall
on my lap
or fly away.

The Key to Happiness

Six in the morning;
sunlight trying to 
pierce
through the sloth
of the mist.


I see the
unposted letters;
a spider's web
hidden
by the shadow
of a picture
on the wall.


I wonder if
your thoughts
woke me up.
The chirping birds
remind me
I never slept
in the first place. 


Sitting with the 
morning tea
I look for
the key
to happiness.

Language

Language;
A drop
of water
hangs
from the tap
but never falls.
The sound of
my knuckles
louder than
the sound of
the falling
drop.


Stars weave
a necklace
in the skies.
It breaks;
infinite beads
scattered
on the highway.


Mist drapes
the sky,
We make love
in the haze.
A shiver passes
like ants
rushing towards
their home.
The fog disappears;
We communicate.

Sunset

Sunset

the moon

doesn't care

Words

My words fall out 
like thousand ants 
spilling from an anthill. 
A volcano
erupting from the decayed trunk; 
soldiers eating upon
the dead branch
hoping to make 
the tree
alive.


I hold the full moon
in my cup.
It completes a cycle
when i pour the water
on my knees.
The scars don't blurr;
the half moon makes it darker
like a shovel
deepening
the 
grave.


Shadows dance
on white paper
like toothpicks
scattered
in
darkness.
My speech
curdles like milk;
a spider gets trapped
in its own web.
My veins burst forth 
forming words,
but you 
only see 
question 
marks.

Sunrise

The only difference

between sunrise and sunset

is what follows

Echo

Raindrop falls;
crumbled leaves
flutter
like chapped lips 
quivering
at the drop of tear,
wetting the cleave
of words unsaid.


The sound
of a caterpillar
crossing the stalk.
An evening 
contained
in the darkness 
of its 
shadows


The echo of 
a distant song 
lingers on.
No words, no harmony, no beat;
it resonates in the silence 
of nothingness. 

DIVINITY

A faded
carving

of a swan

feeding its children 

below

the chiseled

sculpture

of 

the Lord

                                         
                                          (Pictures taken at "Somnathpur" temple in Mysore, Karnataka)

The Paradox of Being

A newspaper

lying

unaware

of the grit

on a table 

which 

reoccurs

with every

attempt at

dusting.

The paradox

of being.