Fires

Flares rise up and eat my world
one finger at a time

Again

Sunny day, bright sunshine, smell of rain in the air and promise of exhilarating retail therapy. All alone. Company of a faithful plastic pal .
The cherry on the already juicy goey loaded chocolate cake , 4 letter words spelling a world of promise, proclaiming the end of another season.

Nothing could be more perfect.

Look up. And peering from the other side of the window, looking into her eyes, was what once was everything and then ceased existing. A shadow of ghost from dusty forgotten yesterday. 

A blink.
And the ghost turned and walked away, hands tucked into pockets, eyes searching feet. Maybe embarassed, maybe nostalgic. Maybe just sniggering at wide eyes and shaky hands.

The sun was too strong, and the stench of the wet earth overwhelming. The crowds too loud and the promises ugly.




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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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