Birthday: A Self Portrait

Is it not on a birthday,
a lucid evening,
the struggle bore meaning?
A will to embrace life,
the urge to breathe,
and wail — a tad hard;
the first sigh of many,
we all breathe, don't we?
And there I was,
ready to win,
having only tasted life.
Today, I tasted more...

Now, as I stir
the cauldron 27 times,
anticlockwise, as time flies;
clockwise, to urge time to fly,
at traffic signals,
at modern post offices,
at the bank, facing blank stars,
at unscripted wrestling bouts
and scripted poetry jousts.
27 times it is,
the number, the date,
an obsessive compulsion
— it presents life,
represents living,
and in more ways than known,
reminds me of mortality.

Yet, I seek immortality,
to vindicate
the struggle we are born in,
to substantiate
the ire we live in.
The portrait ends here.
Abrupt.
The final stroke strives
to find completeness
in the incomprehensible.
A painting? No…
A Birthday.

– Leslie

The Winter Morning Rain

The dark ​corridor,

​which connects the ​bed near sunset

and the well​-​lit Christmas tree​ ​at Sunrise,

​is my library.​

​The half-read books ​reek of arrogance,

​today they ​exude the scent of rain,

winter rain,

​whose drops tease​ ​me

at the window,

​urge me ​to play musical chairs...

If only I was my daughter,

​or I were my father,​

I would oblige​.

I am neither old, nor young,

just perfect to be

trapped amongst dusty books,

uncertain at sunset,

jittery about sunrise.

-- Leslie

Clair de Lune

​To hear the silent,

lonely song of the moon tonight,

I strained my heart,

climbed up the winding stairs

of my creative will,

each step stained with sweat

of the masons who built them.

Wonder if they are alive,

do they climb stairs too,

to try and hear this song I crave.

Silence...

That's what we all get,

even the living masons,

the dead artistes,

after a futile chase.

For what we possess is 

a bit of noise, quite a lot,

which we clang up

living by some mortal algorithm.

Look up above, I plead,

in Clair de Lune

lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!

Ode to Insomnia

No, awake I was,
I strained to hear
ye breath in the darkness,
awake I remain...

Into the sleep patterns
I knock n enter,
I mock n leave,
For sleep is death,
death of love,
I fear death...

Pic: wallpapers4u.net