Eliot and I

He was ambushed,
questioned, in a dark room,
where is your Waste Land?
Around you, he sighed.

... Near me, I discover,
while I try to gauge
the length of a long shadow
cast by my office desk lamp --
dark, hiding my Waste Land,
lighting up theirs! 

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.

The Rain (From my Office Window)

​Words reach out

through the glass pane,

with trembling heart

and shaken resolve

they beg for a dance;

hear ye, raindrops.

 

They feel the haste,

the receding clouds,

the fading music;

and then, a rainbow

jumps off the million-dollar

skyscraper called hell.

Fire in the Hall

The wretched hall,
replete with flickering
Super AMOLED minds;
uniform, disciplined
by servers and
a world-wide shackle.

The ergonomic aisles
fuel a relentless
quest for perfection.
But bastard, you,
perfection is a myth,
while our existence
is but a mere conspiracy
hatched by the internet. 

The Hatchback of Notre-Dame

As I reached
the climax,
as the cadence of
my sonnet picked up
for the final yards,
I could see the

insignificant cabinet ministers, 
honking and coercing
their hatchbacks to work; 
in sorry solitude, 
moored in sombre delusions, 
secluded from the love
only an early morning
spring sun shares.

Hunched over a

wheel of less fortune,

towards Notre-Dame,

from Tuglak's ruins,

towards false promises...

The forgotten

ugly bastards

of a Millenium City.

Pic: s13.zetaboards.com

Office!

The fading,

smudged end of

a reality I found hanging

above me marks the

start of a reality check

that awaits me.

This hell is bright...

but tricky, sticky,

a quagmire of excel sheets;

where the morning dew mixes

with numbers and dust,

to brew the brown slashes

of bitter slush on my face...

they call it coffee here!

Photo copyright: www.freestockimages.org

Official Prison

Backs bent to submission
by the bulge of prosperity
surrounding a job in a room
with red-carpeted walls and
a white, life-less ceiling
that guillotines the dreams.

The windows won't let the
world in or the word out;
they are sealed tight by design,
to keep spirits at bay, allowed to dance
only in the rays that the
dusty glass panes let through.

And we look out,
to see purple mist rising from
the rains which give life for many,
while filling the moat around us
prisoners here;
it's official, the sentence.

(Ah! The cell called office cubicle)