Winters

The comfort of winters is that one knows it stings. Not the autumn hail storm that turns a perfectly set up weather into a pile of slush n muck. And leaves behind a feeling of sadness and disappointment.

Sometimes the sky never clears up after a storm in autumn....

The look & the crypt

A glace over the shoulder confirms its just a wall staring back at her. But it still feels like a pair of eyes are piercing her back. She feigns a nonchalant shrugs an trudges on. Not an iota of doubt on what her eyes showed her but the nerves still tingled.
Maybe it was just the alcohol, maybe a random speck of imagination that stuck on.
Maybe there was really someone in there. Or maybe it is all living, everything that forms the microcosm of her universe. That is quite comforting. The furniture talking to the floor as soon as she has her back turned to them. Maybe thats why she just lies, closes her eyes and pretends to sleep, hoping to overhear the intriguing conversations between those that don't matter. A sheer waste of time, but curious nonetheless.

Subconscious is so much lest cryptic than the conscious .


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Broken pavements

The smoke from between her fingertips makes feeble circles, breathes and dies. She thinks someone's called  out to her, turns to see, but that's not for her. Its just the usual mirage of sounds when one is alone in the hustle bustle. Mind playing games, trying to catch sounds from long back, or the familiar unfamiliar around.

A hurried conversation between a couple over impending celebrations at home and another passionate one between a cynic and a believer.The crack under their feet sees and listens to it all.

Love, hate, passion, indifference, tomorrow and yesterday, pain, vanity, laughs, hurry and calm.

Nothings really changed, and nothing ever does, in this city she once loved. Not so long back.




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White

of skies...

of pearl..

of the blinding sun....

of silver, polished and crafted...

of light..

of stars and of moon in the night..

of lilly and laiche..

of pure allure..

and of pain....

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Red Gravestone

Overgrown wilderness and small shrine enclosed,
Shades of crimson peeping out of the moss.
A silent grave. Lonely and small.
At the foot a watchful canine,
Sleeps at the foot of a master that could have been
A slight miscalculation in the cycle of lives for two.

But both at peace finally...

Of empty glasses and spilled wine...

Loud laughter and unsaid words
Dirty shoes and tiring trips
Broken promises and dreams that come true
Tears of pain and a healing hand
Empty packs of cigarettes and overflowing ashtrays
Smoke filled rooms and free thoughts
Cool sea breeze and a sunken ship
Beautiful melodies and melancholy nights
........

Ruins

There's something quite fascinating about ruins, the ones overgrown with green and brown and broken shards. Its difficult to resist scrapping off the peels from the dilapidation, find the fascinating worms underneath.
She wonders why would anyone build them in the very first place, in the midst of desolation. Far from civilization that would care for all it is worth. Or is it that the ruins caused the desolation.
Why should she even want to know, be a part of the ruins, and the life it held once. Its really not hers to encroach, probe, look at....

Humans are such trespassers !!



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