When Autumn Leaves

I pull a thread
to thread away the tapestry
shed away my fears
like autumn leaves
and when autumn leaves
I will not fear
being naked.

My Wallflower

You grow on every edge of the door
Like a scream waiting to burst out.
But you enter like a breeze,
And leave with a smile.
You grow into every tile of the floor
In every room that I swoon,
I see you.
Curled up, but still strong.
On the smoothest of walls
Always dancing with the wind.
The planks that I pinned on the broken windows
Never stopped you.
Perpetually in a waltz, with the whistles through the cracks.
The height of the ceilings never bothered you,
Upside down, and inside out,
You always reached the places that I never could.
Written all over the halls
In this mess that I stood,
Was a lover’s dream,
And a well-wisher’s nightmare.
I’ll weed you out someday
But for now
Just a little while longer
I guess I could let you stay.

Memories

Time drips away

Like little drops of monsoon

One less wet leaf

.

Misguides me

Like the mirages of summer

One more singed twig

.

Heaves my dreams

Like the distant chills of winter

One less quivering green

.

I take one more step into the fray

Oblivion is all I see

Yet I still walk that way

.

.

Anxiety about the future and death for a human is inevitable. We know we walk towards it every day. Our time and parts of us are left behind bit by bit, leaf by leaf.
Disturbing as the thought might be, unbearable to some, not thinking about it and hiding in our fog, I believe, is like committing philosophical suicide.

More often than not we close our eyes and fabricate our own philosophies to tackle oblivion. It’s too hard to face the truth. Every culture weaves their own stories. Heaven and hell, rebirths, afterlife in some form or the other. Whatever the truth may be; all we know for sure is that we live through memories of people who we touched in our lives. The crumbs- of you, that you left behind.

Colours

they told me stories of shadows and ghosts,
of goblins and fiends that hide in our homes,
of blank canvases, torn pictures and soundless songs,
of plastic homes where no one belongs,
of men that were sordid, deceitful and prim,
Aloof, greedy, hungry and grim.
So all the colours I have known,
I’ve had to paint myself.

Familiar roads

I tread on familiar roads, again;
in secluded pavements I have always known.
I’ve been here quite often,
but today, there’s a hesitation in my tone.

I notice familiar skies, again;
in these streets I often roam.
I’ve touched and felt these stars before,
but today, they feel so far from home.

I breathe in familiar air, again;
on lonely lanes with my worried shoes.
I’ve stumbled on these cracks before,
but today, I feel the bruise.

Into the darkness I rush, again;
to feel something new.
Confusion, darling, where have you been,
today, I wish to dance with you.

Every other day

Even before the first veining rays
Find their ways
through the struggling, stretching Morning trees
I despise Mondays.
The yawning sounds of the morning wheeze,
the window breeze
Pours its way uninvited into my bedroom.
As I begin my day,
like every other day, breaking down in the womb of blankets wrapped around me,
preparing for labor,
I savor the thought, like every other day,
of the time when all this toil will get me to the highest seat in the company.
Only to be shaken up by the 15th snooze.
I get prepared to hang my noose
Over the usual loose white collar and sleeves,
But with nice polka dots this time.
Like every other day,
I race down the staircase with an empty stomach
And deface my shoes by crushing the swarm of dead insects on the floor
Just like every other night,
these insects fly into the gate lights near the door
Burning themselves over and over thinking they’ll reach the moon.
Silly creatures.

Brief Summary Of Postindustrial Life

Standing silently.

Not necessarily silently but just quietly.

Holding back the riot inside his chest,

Heart pounding like the prison door

Of a madman during the full moon.

A rhythmic push on his ribs like a butterfly in a cocoon.

With breaths that oscillate through him

like the tempo to a hymn,

Spilling out fatigue in the air.

The same air

That his lungs are so desperately trying to grasp.

He clasps his will

To go on further,

Holding it like the last bill

In the hands of a man reduced to destitution.

Probably sitting near a train station,

hungry to bits,

But that’s none of his concern.

Because before this ‘will’ splits in two,

He sees the sign board at the crest of his view.

With just one more floor left to climb,

He spews out a squeal,

Climbing stairs for pizza is definitely a cumbersome ordeal.