being a stranger...

for all those who have become a stranger to their own selves in the name of compromises, adjustments; for being polite, for not to hurt others ... it is important to know, recognise and remain true to ones own identity ...

Falsities came

unchecked, unescorted,

like a silhouette, tiptoeing as a winter sunray that

manages its way through narrow slits of the branches.

Walking along with him, across seasons, covering hours and minutes,

I lost Truth, on my journey, at that unsuspecting bent of the zigzagged road.

Gently disintegrate me.

Removing all the layers-

blue, crimson and green,

get to the core.

And you would know

how I have worn a fake, forged face

all along.

All those dreams that were left unattended;

all that I hoped but never lived;

all those meaningless smiles that I carefully tucked;

all those half hearted promises that I never kept;

all those sobs that hid behind well groomed eye brows;

all those fears that were pushed beneath an uplifted chin;

for all of them, and the pretensions,

and for you
I have been a fake.

http://amolife.com/image/women/women-photography-by-antonella-arismendi.html

posted for http://dversepoets.com/

alley of flower

He often holds my hand and walk along with

in a summer noon

on melted tar, black and brutal like lava;

Death;

he is a constant companion,

in his grim sarcasm,

accompanying all human efforts;

courteous, quaintly curious, with a huge robe

that seemed as tangled as my existence,

 he would drop in for a chat

like an old lover

to have pillow talk on my ailing bed;

and then again, at times, right across, like a stranger

turning me numb, scraping my nerves

with a metallic screeching of wheels;

at times, I see him wild and passionate,

rampant in his irritation at human foolish ness.

I trap concern in my fingers and
 clutch conscience to my chest

and guiltily rush towards safety.

‘What is it you fear?’ he asks in his surprised baritone.

His voice, a caressing whisper against my skin,

he says there’s an alley of flowers, beyond,

where eternal light filters like rain drops.

There are white flowers everywhere,

  White, the color of purity and a woman’s sorrow,

mingling with the fragrance of wet earth.

There are night queen jasmines,

flowers for the bride and the dead.

Death goes on describing,

his breath, like the softness of flower petals,

like a blessing.

city bleeds ...