Summer sale on for winter wear,
I just can't wait for that
retail salesman and his
market theory that always wins.
At sultry Chennai, it's a jest,
but I'm hell bent on
buying that glossy jacket
to sweat n cook in it...
As it's winter here for me, in May,
middle of the great Indian summer;
where is my soda lemonade?
That boy drank it all, years back!
It's hard, harder for I have
to sift right through the
junk-filled sewers
that maketh my memory.
Some memoir I will manage,
stink rising with every sigh.
Every step I take, I fail,
in that search for silence;
for stealth to approach my
foes to make 'em all
feel the pain I endured when I broke
my nose n bones, but the will remained.
That will, I plea every day,
with the morning rays,
to aid me, to find the steps,
the small silent ones,
I took as a kid, smiling;
but my heart is heavy now...
... So big in girth now
that even my baby steps disturb peace;
it's louder than the buzzing fan
or my panting lungs,
both try to pacify in vain
the cells that burn, they burn.
That green cover was
just perfect,
for it leaves my mom glad,
her son has a roof.
My shifting, swaying roof
is loyal to me though,
with random leaks,
it lets me revel in the
blessing from the heavens,
opening me to truths,
the ones I truly belong to,
the ones which cleanse me...
It can keep me in a
happy warp for hours,
watching a ship sail out yonder,
or those two boats which always
struggle to take school kids to
tuitions and then home.
This, the time when
sunsets never charmed me,
its romance never touched me,
as I was gay with the waves
and the digital snaps of ships
I will go home n copy on paper.
Then again this shower
did make me shiver
n run home for a blanket,
a cup of tea too,
which was always kept warm
for I was loved.
But the days vanish,
into thin air, the western winds blow it,
along with the clouds, to the hills.
Beyond my reach,
yes, I dread the climb and
the heights I will reach.
For I'm a man, destined to fall;
the higher I am, the bloodier my death.
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| Credit: Wikipedia |
The morning song this day
was dry like the withered branch
of the speaking tree
just outside my window.
It maybe the summer heat,
or is it this headache?
That turned your voice
coarse n bitter, between stale breath.
Maybe it's the curse of the lost
Spanish Hollow I played with ease,
my fingers strumming in blind passion,
knowing its every sigh...
The music flows still,
a meaningless, lustful tide;
the senseless tunes composed
by the devil at large, the fallen one.
