Tales of Volcanoes

Every morning she has tea with the story teller. Because it is good for the heart he says. She smiles and listens as he rambles on, about the village of his childhood, the one with blue sandy beaches and democracy and communism. He's crossed distant seas too, in different circumstances, to find calm in a foriegn land. But his eyes sparkle  and dance as he explains, haltingly in a foriegn tongue, how the weather was beautiful in summer but ugly in monsoon. How back then there were no roads to get to or away from home. He talks of the exotic fruits in his backyard, and the volcanic ash that covered thier homes and wasnt too cruel on them. He has stories, everyday, more fascinating each time and in those dancing eyes she sees the exotic foriegn lands she may never set foot on.

He's right. Tea is good for the heart.


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Silent Sunlight

Tears make beautiful poets, silent ones even more so. Melancholy bleeding into words, seething with pain, seeking relief. Searching for morphine in entangled thoughts.

But its the carefree mind thats the ultimate narcotic. An expanse of ultimate wilderness, days blending with nights into dawn. A glimpse of utopia always present within arms reach. Maybe it was always this easy , maybe it was always there.
The blissful state of ignorance.While it lasts.



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Cold

Cold as ice and cold as death
Cold as a winter mornings breath
Cold as steel , cold as clay
Cold as the morning on a harlots bed
Cold as laughter, cold as pain
Cold as the drops of rain n shame
Cold as eyes and cold as death
Cold as words that werent said

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Unpacked suitcase

In the corner of the room, a bag full of memories stands .. as beautiful as tragedy. Longing to be peered through, wishfully ...wistfully.

She wants someone to take it away when she's not looking. And throw it away, far away...in a river that flows swiftly away.. from a mountain top she'll never look down from... into the deepest trenches of the ocean...

Just take it away and never open, ever ...

But she looks around and it still stands by the corner, longing to looked at..wishfully .. wistfully...

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Old tunes...

The songs that once flowed free in the breeze were melancholy but beautiful. Today the stains are too loud, the breeze as silence as ever. Push them away, the myriad questions that rise, the what ifs and the what nots.
The sights of the unsaid, the sounds of the unseen.

Listen to the tunes again, and search for the same strains of strings.

Maybe..

just maybe..


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what if...

We could stop making excuses, for all the what ifs in life,
For what she is...
This is not maybe what could've been
Cos while the never touched, never felt ever surfaced,
Maybe, what would've been will forever haunt
For closure.
In the the disturbed surface on the edge of the water
never begged for forgiveness
of what was never the fault
Maybe, what wouldve been will forever haunt.
For a closure.




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Withering

The old lady sits across the road.an intent look in her eyes. The kind that can pierce through your darkest secrets , burn your soul with guilt. Like she's accusing you of having left. Of having looked at her and smiled and then walked away without looking back to a new set of laughter n smiles.
The wise old one will never forgive . And The wise old one will never forget.
The wise old one will weep for you and the half stubbed one left behind on the pavement...
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