Yours Tonight

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In the wee hours of the morn,

I wake up to the smell

Of your sweet, sweet embrace.

I remember last night,

I remember the soft, soft sound of your sighs,

As you moved and bent me to your tune,

And I was all yours for the night.

Tied to the corner of your bed,

Pliant, I yearn for your soul and pain,

Make you bleed, make you hurt,

Am here only to keep you alive.

Silent and gagged when you’re gone,

Gone off with your friends for the day.

I wait for when you’re down on your luck,

When your heart’s broken and defeated.

Then you remember me,

Remember my faithful grace.

Your spirit ablaze,

You seek me once more,

And I am yours again for the rest of the night.

Prison of Promises

When the last light kisses the soil,

You can hear their whispers in earnest call,

You can turn your head in search of the voice,

Only darkness shall greet your greedy soul.

They linger where our feet falter to step,

Oblivious to satiated words,

The ensnare us with a longing grace,

Captivate our larger self.

Caught in the circle of fate,

Poison ivy creeping on the wall,

The swollen bricks deign desolation,

The forlorn sparrow perches on its tall.

Like a call in the dark,

Their presence a mere shadow,

Sentinel to the night breeze

That beckons a seditious trail.

We are trapped in our selves,

In a soporific haze,

As silence slowly makes its way home.

Waiting for the rain

-->It breaks my heart to see them smile,

For I have taken one and broken it into a far cry,

I have let them bury it in hollow emptiness,

Of a lone swallow on a hot summer day.

Can you now picture the vast dry expanse?

The shallow graves of un-quenched humor?

Can you smell the putrid fumes,

Of a barren land under a faraway sun?

I have twisted in my mind monsoon skies

Into figures of divinity, the envy of a poetic line.

I have transformed spring blossoms into emotional cataclysms,

And despair into a cynic’s paradise.

But, you, I have not touched,

Yet you have wilted like from the ravage of a distant, untamed flame.

You, I have not touched,

And now I fear what remains must wait for the first spell of rain.

If you promise to survive the summer,

I promise I shall cry,

I shall cry and cry,

Till the monsoon clouds tear.

Death of a poem

I pour out like a garbled stream
From the depths of a melancholic soul,
As the azure turns a shade of grey
I make my way to a crumpled note.

I emerge as a jumble of thoughts
Caught in the midst of a downpour,
Strolling like a vagabond
Before making my way home.

I deign not as the mind struggles
To tame me into meaningful streams,
Till the night-lamp burns out I remain
Stubborn to the blue ink.

The end is a dismal affair,
Caught between glory and age,
Till from the worn edges of a parched sheet
I am reborn as a tune.

When I see a shadow of myself in your life,
I shall walk.
When I see another moonlit cast in your life,
I shall walk.
The time is now,
So I shall begone.

Goodbye little dreamer

There’s a place under the moonlight,
Beside the old stone henge,
Where the rain finds its comfort
In the blanket of secret tales.
I’ll string this into a song some day,
And I’ll sing away the pain.

Goodbye little dreamer,
Goodbye you elusive stray,
I will scribe for you the world you missed,
And the places you didn’t traipse.

There’s a time of the day,
When the sky bleeds a golden ray,
You can hear the murmur of the wind,
As it showers the cotton in the air.
I’ll paint this for you on the dark canvas
Of his hope-rimmed gape.

Goodbye little dreamer,
Goodbye you elusive stray,
When this summer ends and I’ll reminisce,
My beautiful stranger, you shall be missed,
I know this wasn’t your dream.
But in the summer blossom you shall remain,
And In every grey overcast and in every first rain,
In every word and every tune you shall always resonate.

You nameless star,
Shining amidst the caped facade,
This wretched world wasn’t fit for your light,
You would be a heathen in this carnival,
A prophecy, a sacrifice, a flighty folly of life,
For them you had to pay a price.
Not in vain in the darkness you will shine,
Like a flickering flame on a cold windy night,
You will remain in the shadows a silent guide,
For faltering steps at the crossroads of their lives.

Broken pen

Tell me a story,
Mouthed a piqued heart,
One spring night as the clouds poured a tear.
A smile creased his wrinkled cheeks,
A reminiscent glow ember-ed in his eyes,
As he saw her tracing the creaking dendrons in her palm.

In the flicker of the flame of the candle by their bed,
He spoke of nights of decades past,
When time drowned in boundless conversations,
Surfacing, but not quite, to breathe awhile.
He spoke of the trails traipsed upon by jaded feet,
Of twining tracks baked in the setting sun,
Of trains, wayfarers and pungent mires.
He spoke of starry nights peering shy out of the cityscape,
Of Orion’s belt and moonlight gilded tress.
He spoke of halos of midnight’s orb,
Of dewdrop clasping on a morning blade,
Of a curious moth for nectar sweet at day,
Of magic and witchcraft by heathen hands.
He spoke of incomplete tunes,
Of complete songs,
Of parched poetry on a dusty attic shelf.

She turned to him with question in her eyes,
As another dawn spread it’s wings across the eastern sky,
Who are they, she whispered clasping the wilted fingers,
A story, he smiled, by a broken pen.