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

Dusty Portrait

These fine lines

on a black canvas:

Spaced by fate and summer,

by heartless strokes

from petrol-driven

blunt brushes made of rubber.

The sensuous, sexual curves

your lips smudge, erase and shift,

again n again,

through breaths from the inferno,

from the deserted soul

that lies beyond

this rude State

I visit to earn my bread.

Pic Source: indiatoday.intoday.in

Hollow Music!

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.