Wednesday, July 27, 2011

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.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

alley of flower

He often holds my hand and walk along with
in a summer noon
on melted tar, black and brutal like lava;
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.