Hue

Carbon was cooling its heels
on waters presence.
As questions were asked
of the yesterdays that rained.
rain that rains everyday
that is not today.

So, they were caught chasing the rain
in the tomorrows too.
To clean the yesterdays
they'd go back to.
and she'd dance often
till she fell in a twirling mist
collapsing in my heart like a forgotten tryst

her stories held promise of returning wonder.
of compulsions and freedom, around and asunder
and she danced
till the marks of her feet
lay wet patches on my yesterday.

the music never played.
so silence held company
with our reticent cacophony.
and blue was the taste
of melting purple in my mouth
where her kiss was sealed
in a tomorrow I'd never see.

wasps and coldness are my gifting beds
you and she my distant ends
frivolous the sign of moon
fickle, the end of June.
when fog and memory override
to find me beside my side.

we'll grow colored moons with smiles.
unhinged for a while.

Silence

The silence echoed thoughts.
It echoed heartbeats too.
He planned to preserve them
In a forgotten corner.

Where the shapes changed often
into something they were not.
And he collapsed within
when searching the forgotten thought.

He allowed himself the final sin-
A prayer!
For release from the skin.
He spread his reach to morals
and he spread till eternity
and there he rested;
till time caught up
and brought a single hue.

As limiting spaces contracted,
around him, the world expanded.
The colored world -
in tones of black and white.

He thus had this dream to be born again
out of an idea;
To be born again
pure and of a single fabric.
And the dream grew into a desire.
This desire grew
Into a cloud of colorful dreams.
That blanketed his world.
In silence
He asked his questions
And in silence he waited, for his answers
In silence
He waits...
forever.

Outside the rain fell.
Inviting.
Blinding.

Senses

Her life was an experience of heightened senses. A cautious undercurrent.
The sensations grew stronger, and, they threatened to deafen the sense of touch. She would not know the touch of grass, the vibrancy of colours, the flowing river from a placid lake.
And then he decided to leave her, just like that. Said, that he felt constricted, that there must be life outside this heart of hers. His calling was one of derangement. She could not fight to hold him. Her sensitivity won over.
And then it happened. She could feel the touch of grass, the vibrancy of colours, the flowing river from a placid lake.
His deafness had made him immune to all senses.

The love street

His was the brightest house on the street. The street had no lights, as they never needed any.
Each morning a sealed box was delivered to his doorstep and he stocked it with the rest. There were times when he wondered what the boxes might contain, but then he just as quckly forgot. One morning they delivered a heart. He did not know what to do with it. It occupied a place on his table and for long, it stayed there.
On a day in fall, she asked for his heart; and he gave her the one on the table. Their children were born with a heart in their hands.
As they walked up the street the people, often looked the other way, lest they go blind.

Patterns in time

He drew, since always, but he drew on ground that was wet with the smell of soaked mud. She drew too, what he drew; but her art was wavy and shades of black.
Each rain he stepped out onto a barren piece of land and sketched lines of purpose, lines that promised time. She sat a distance and drew lavish visions of gray. His seat by the river was her haven, only the colour of leaves changed. Lines burried deeper into snow as he walked to a promise. Lines burried deeper as she lingered to a hope.
His road back was blurry. The promise of time eroded his purpose.
She feared that she drew better.

Fall

I started out to race
And I lost time;
As it all collapsed on me;
The whole space exploding
To singularity!

I walked on past the high dreams
Of myraid steps and lost screams,
Flashes of a road
Long deserted,
The setting flame a hue of Orange
An expansive barren land that welcomes,
Comforting pain, they say;
I started out....

The ground has ulcers that sting the feet,
Craving for human contact;
Relief again, again the pain.
A compulsive indulgence of pleasure
I remember,
I started out...

sometimes...

sometimes the hope of leaving is arrival's only premise