Melancholy of music
playing along the senses,
mind seems to sink
in the glut of possiblity.

Chances that occurred,
chances that didn’t;
but the thoughts plundered
without missing any.

Stuck in a cubicle
with moving walls,
converging the odds
to get a thing good.

Spell of reality is broken,
existence starts to begin
in the world beyond,
in the world surreal.

The day marks
the oblivion with oneself,
but a part of us
still remains anchored.

Rooting the reality,
building the walls broken;
its the heart that remains anchored,
to build a new shore, one day.


Heart aches to fall.

The battle of roses

fought with barrel of a gun,

blood seeks to merry the rose

with a little color of its own.


The trauma of loss,

the tyranny of indifference,

heart aches to fall,

forever and ever alone.


Despising my existence,

to unsee the separation,

and to unite in the world

known to all but none.

Sorrow of the Wind.

I seem to see the never ending emotion,

unfulfilled and unmoved;

Through eyes of the wind,

I find myself in shallow of a room

painted with despair

and with a lady sitting at its bay.


Bidding a final goodbye

the mistress takes a fall,

hoping to find herself never alive,

to unsee her lover smitten

with fury of death

and with agony of separation.


The King unmoved and unfulfilled,

moved the tray of doom

into the sight of public,

who began to fear the rage

let loose upon them ,

trying to turn the eye away.


The honor and prestige

has been restored,

but at a cost so dear

that no man can justify

and move with the same honor

which he nudges others to carry.


Passing through the empty lanes

as the night shines bright

and the blood all dry,

I secretly whisper

to the souls to re-unite

and set the emotions all right.

The Colosseum.

Glory of the game, so played religiously

with minds of the audience

sitting unperturbed;

Cheering around the masquerades,

the mob grows in the anguish

and relishes on the gore.


Galloping past the victim,

the knight draws the

first blood in open,

as the anguished bites the dust;

The crowd bids a farewell

to the fallen with a roar for some more.


Magic of the red enigma

remains a mystery

and will remain so,

as we stand testimony

to the Colosseum,

as we did thousands of years ago.


The Colosseum has only expanded,

belittling the world around,

in front of the game,

so played religiously;

The Thirst hasn’t quenched

and the nadir hasn’t ceased.


Isn’t there a solution

to this paradox,

where men cheer

at death and

laugh at anguish.


Isn’t there an end

to this,

or we just wait

and wait some more,

till the cannon points at us.


Choice is ours,

end is what we choose,

to live and let live

or to kill and get killed.



A Reverie.

Garden so pervasive,

that sky felt shy.

Flowers so beautiful,

that stars twinkled without light.

But when she walked down that isle,

garden became speechless,

even flowers shied along.

There she was,

standing with the most beautiful smile,

waiting for me at the altar.

I stood fixed to the ground,

shying along with the flowers,

becoming speechless like the garden,

finally uttering the most precious words,

I do.

Standing across the garden,

holding the flowers for her,

trying to revive my senses,

and there she was

standing with the most beautiful smile.

I stood fixed to the ground,

shying along with the flowers,

becoming speechless like the garden,

finally uttering the most precious words,

Will you?

The Maturing Light.

Maturing light of a lamp

in a cold breezy evening,

flickering towards its left

and forth,

but never losing its shine

in any adversity.

Startled and Puzzled,

the boy sat next to the lamp

trying to hold the fire

within him and within the lamp.

Murmuring the story of

Aladdin and the magic lamp,

wondering the three wishes

he would choose,

believing his lamp was the one.

Hunger quenching up his stomach,

cold shivering up his body,

and the breeze making him stammer,

the lamp wondered,

“What would my master ask

from me?”

And the boy dazzled the lamp

With the choices he had made,

the ones which no other had made.

So he began his song of happiness,

“Food so much that no one

suffered any longer.

The sun so bright

that the cold could disappear.

And the breeze so fright,

that the aroma begins to fill.”

So pure were his choices

that even the mundane lamp

wanted to turn magical,

to witness something even

more majestic,

like the maturing light of a lamp.