The Books
Books are in restless wintery mood,
Their voices seem urgent,
What the books whisper
We prefer not to mention in social circles;
Yet they know more,
Have been where we can't go
In the clothes we wear;
They are unsettled, we are motionless,
Their voices are foreign to our ears,
They disdain, they will shake us off,
Too many voices, too many lost conversations;
When I open a page, fall into its frosty profundities
To sink like a stone, I talk in clichés;
They hover in time like bad omens
They flap wings; frantic pages cloud the sky;
They are the darkness in our bones
That keeps on sparkling like dead flames;
What struggles, they endure day, night!
Some books unopened stay to sight;
Books of some pasts have been scorched
Or may long live not a page turned,
To die unread of ripe old age,
Or by next generation earned,
Yellowed, book-worms devoured in rage!
There’s a thing common - books or men,
But a few significant can
Every book has its shining creed,
Which we fail to read and believe
My gallery has ended
In upper part of my body
A cognitive bell rings
From a dial-up connection of live wires;
The modem is working JUST
To repeatedly provide the facsimile of
Barren and bald paths;
Inner lumbering of daily freight
Coiling, clutching upward;
There is no vivacity
The vital force has parasited
How I inhale life?
My days and nights are bolted
Inside a brain cell,
My voice has held back;
Now it lays a plan to brawl my soul;
Residing in my own skull
It dictates notes imitating my tone,
If I could disintegrate my recall;
As my shadow has left me
There remains Just I, me and myself,
None is willing to be with me
Why is my brain, a black hole?
How could it not be a universe?
I have a constellation of migraine, tablets
Syringe, backache and insomnia,
Dream has become a dead pattern,
As worn out as fossil led glow;
Everything has become identical
Except the weight of consequence
That has variations of endurance;
As I go through perdition
My imbalance will be rectified,
And after allotted time
My gallery will end,
Then you can hang my art
And me on the wall
The Death of the Seas
My mental wire renders
Images of worn out routes,
After a short circuit happened
In the pathways of daily burdens;
My diseased body quiver with its weight
The hard stitch rubbles skin snatchers;
Leeched of life force
I have little energy to breath;
The voice I hear is not my own,
They dictate notes in familiar tone
But full of foreign phrases,
Which they disguise as invitation;
I wish I could dissolve from memory
Or hide in my skull cave;
But it is not wise to stifle;
Then an unlearned laughter came
A spring emerging into sun rays
A river emerges from the death of the seas
There are two ways to live a life
I can pursue the difficult one
I Painted an Ocean
I painted an ocean
But forgot the shore
There were no ships
When I took a close look,
It was my isolation
Sailing like the sea waves;
I searched alone for centuries
To add the travelers
In my voyage,
Still, singular I stand
On this mortal deck;
Need an island to anchor
When I call on a radio
It becomes silent monologue outward,
The reply comes from the resounding inside;
With every tsunami from the bosom of the core
I feel like conulariid without pearls;
Although I have vastness of Dead Sea
But no light house of life fervor
A Rainbow Memory
When my hollow present blows
The dying embers in the heart grate
A fond childish Cinders glows up;
The frozen black memory melts past colors,
A sparkle of rainbow recollections,
As I walk up on our trodden pavement
I saw a slash of sea between houses;
Thy red dress like a bright red boat
Sink in golden sand, blue fishing nets
Brown fort walls, green lichen beach;
My soul speaks, my lips moves
A frequency of meetings, a wave of hugs;
As I net to catch these moments
Like A street urchin’s yellow fists
Holding the rainbow in his tiny grasp
