Flowering Epitaphs​

​If there were a few plaques

placed in random order

next to my flower pots,

would that make them

party to the larger injustice

the blooms ​highlight?

Life, indeed, is a collection

of epitaphs​ in stale air​,

some lost in the attic,

some to the vagaries of

destructive rebuilding,

and many among flowers...

... In random order,

the ​notions gather grime,

​my dog chases squirrels around them.

His present, mine too,

​and the world stays

shrouded in smog.

-- Leslie

My day just slit up!

Here comes

the last act of

my work holiday,

I watch the world

honk and vroom into a

melancholy sunset.

Thank you, luxury.

The little mercy,

my gift for a day

—a slit in the

blinds, bloody binds,

it expands my horizon.

From dour LCD walls,

to a greyish, Lutyens' green.

Summer Morning

The cold blanket

of haze
I saw in your eyes

has cleared,

replaced by a bright spark,

summer they call it...

But I christen it lust;

I love it

for the bright lights

make you bold;

relentless, stubborn,

annoyingly bold.

Pic credit: newsx.com

The Devilry!

I open the pressure hatch,
          let myself out,
into the murky, Sodium coloured world
          –their midnight,
my hour to trek back, I did time,
          to the beach,
finding warmth in the cold waves,
          and a colder moon.

I dread the darkness in sunlight,
          I must be him;
I see bright lights in darkness,
          I am him, the Devil.

The Fall

The season has a bit

more than the smog

that fills my lungs;

creeping through the
fickle filters I put up

to fight its advances.

It’s relentless, fast

and eases me into bed,

under layers of cotton;

and, a bit of lycra, of late;

as I make love, monitor and

chronicle the flame with a Google app.