It is a dirty case of cleaned glasses
aged with the eyes which saw through
to see dust sitting on the window
where crows were cawing until the flesh loosens
and legs spread
we come down to heights
philosophy lost to the likes
surrendering to monotony of mutual rights.

the air comes between us and space
when we recreate ourselves
and our rusty past
it shakes the distance
we covered to last
we create from sun and feed it to moon
our dreams to our youth
once more lot of ground to cover
lot to ignore
glassened hardened fastened
our eyes to our shattered core.

Let Me Write.

I have to compose something quickly
before hell breaks loose
and urgency of my heavens touch the incarcerated souls
to not burn them again
I have to write
the reminders in time
and adjust the velocity of feelings
each time to a faster pace
and further the gaze
so that the character adjusts the amount of futile references it can make
so as to not smother them and itself
I have to make space
and compose quickly but still not in haste
the metamorphosis renders my incapable past, I suggest myself to last
with the wisdom of gaze that I inculcate
I have to write
so as to not forget
these fillers of past
and metamorphosis of haste
I have to write
the moments of truth
willingness of heart
through my – this ignorant art
to see how my words taste
in your mouth like
the countless things you say
I have to write
allow me if I may.

Dead God and UnThankful Me

Dead God when you dreamed of me

I was sinking, you could see

I crossed you in swinging through your oblivions

Kicking you hard to beat your eyes open 

but you just passed through me, lost yourself

My prayers muttered into your endless, boundless souls. There was much noise and clutter, from those before me. They thought that in your kingdom they would hold.

Dead God why were you so dead

Even when others saw you alive 

They say you were stung and deprived 

Like all, you just wanted to feed

On all positive and still weeped

You had nothing to give back 

And even if you did, you’d put riddles on those gifts

In my faith I was cracking them open in your name

Like to you my virility was a long game

The thought of being thankful then just passed

I am sorry my dead God, but more than your blessings my struggles surpassed.

The logic of mirror

The mirror has its own life

Looks at itself and more so with pride.

Seeing itself as anyone it can be

It toys with the image of me.

Each day I thrash this image of it

Each day it makes a new person of the bits.

There is always but one person that remains

The one who in the childhood stared 

And was looked back from the mirror with the same glare.

This person in mirror always remained same

The one outside changed by life stains.

Can I look in the mirror and be proud

Can I stare and stare out loud

Can I challenge the one that I became

Or stick to now whatever is the game.

Because the mirror always knows our truth

Subtle rash kind or a crook

And whatever logic we may find in our lives

The mirror sees right through it and strikes.

The necessities and luxuries we may define

Mirror knows the logic that we undermine

The logic of where life brims

The person in the mirror lingers but soon dims.