Rucksack of Make Believe

My rucksack of make believe

Is soon to run out,

But for now I will spend.

The day has been long,

The evening tired,

And the lonely night

Needs some food to sleep.

I don't live alone,

But with a breathing void,

Who just speaks and speaks

But is never really heard.

I don't sleep alone,

But with a breathing silence,

Who is felt and always felt

But never really warm.

The silent void breathes 

As the night tries to feed,

But never a morsel does it eat.

Hungry it remains awake

And tries in vain to speak.

Yet it screams, it is loud,

But what more I hear is,

How that silent void

You have left behind, breathes.

There's no more left to spend,

It's all run out, it's empty-

My rucksack of make believe.

Alight

Two Buds've Flowered, All Around is Alight,
'Oh! You up? It's a Good Morning, alright!'

A Speck

The sky is peopled by gentle giants,
White towering nimbuses, sailing
On the air to destinations unknown,
The forest called out in birdsong,
Beckoning Man to walk through it again,
As He had done for eons, eons ago.
The trees bore witness to this,
Standing tall, resolute, selfless,
In their verdant, bountiful benevolence,
As they breathed life into us all.
The flowers burst forth as if
They were the trees' and plants' smiles-
Bright, joyous, fragrant and sweet.
The rushing river bubbled forth
To its own babbling tune, onward
To lose herself in her oceanic paramour.
Above it all, beamed down the Sun,
Lounging in his heavenly rocking chair,
Smiling as a grandfather would,
Upon his thriving grandchildren.

Within it all, is Me-
An inconsequential speck,
Within a speck in,
The inconceivable vastness of,

The Cosmos.

My Only Ever...

Sitting cross legged,
A sunny spring day,
The breeze fragrant
With the forest and seas,
On that pebbly riverbed,
Fringed with wizened old
Oaks and sycamores,
Waves with the memories
Of their high icy womb,
Gently lapping around
My numb, tired wheezing chest.

The little fish nibble my naked skin,
But no longer tickle.
My tired sleepless eyes close,
But don't sleep;
I no longer hear anything,
But one sound;
My mind’s void of all thoughts,
But for one;
My heart still beats within,
But no longer for me.

I only have to lie down,
Let the river lull me and
Take me within its emerald folds
To the realm of eternal sleep.
A sleep, timeless and dreamless ,
But for one unfading dream-
A dainty little smile,
A husky honeydew voice,
A tight warm embrace,
A reviving passionate kiss,
All of which never were,
Yet, were always there,
Of You.

My only ever, You.

Sands

Moist salty tang of the balmy moon breeze

Words tumbling around as clouds fly past

Didn’t you mail me that poem from a beach?

Flip-flop Person

Cotton shirts a size extra
Anything else's a cage.

Old denims; lived, survived
Pantaloons're straitjackets.

There's no real need for them,
But glasses perch on the nose.

A flip-flop person, always
I don't like shoes much.

Windows, breeze, light, rain,
No closets, walls or fences.

'Hey you! 32!'

I woke up a morning,
After an insomniac night,
Today's paper was yellow,
Thirty Two years old, and
Front page, right column,
Spoke of Missing Persons.
There were none but One,
Male, 32, Wheatish, 5'10"
Northerly hair line, unruly
Outgrown French beard,
Curly entangled ponytail.
Last seen on a bridge,
Writing all by himself.
Pair of faded blue jeans,
Brown khadi kurta, with
Tired rolled up sleeves.
I'm now at the mirror wall.

From the paper,
I look up,
From the mirror,
He looks back.
A post-it on the mirror
Scrawls,
'Hey you! 32!'

Itself isn't, yet It Is

Itself isn't, yet It Is
Itself isn't, yet it's fragrant,
Itself isn't, yet it's warm,
Itself isn't, yet it's rousing,
Itself isn't, yet it's moving,
Itself isn't, yet it's reviving,
Itself isn't, yet it's alight,
Itself isn't, yet it's selfless,
Itself isn't, yet it's giving,
Itself isn't, yet it's honest,
Itself isn't, yet it's loyal,
Itself isn't, yet it's twinkling,
Itself isn't, yet it's caring,
Itself isn't, yet it's nurturing,
Itself isn't, yet it's embracing,
Itself isn't, yet it's transforming,
Itself isn't, yet it's timeless,
Itself isn't, yet it's crushing,
Itself isn't, yet it's painful,
Itself isn't, yet it's healing.
Is it
A tree?
Or is it
Just love?

Word, Verse

Beat in my Heart,
Air in my Breaths,
Tears in my Eyes,
Perhaps my Life,
Surely my Death.

The Bubble

As I breathe, I cannot.
The air balloons within,
Catches in my chest-
A bubble which threatens
To burst any moment.
An explosion 
Will be rather welcome;
It's an implosion
I am afraid of.
Consuming me all
From my own withins,
Like a black hole left
By that morose, distant
Dying star.
But for now
That bubble refuses 
To burst; stubborn
It clings on to its
Flimsy walls
Pregnant with uncertainties.
How can it realize,
It's choking me?

Every moment, I live a death,
Every moment, I die a life.

The Mustache

An afternoon
Of languid desire
Alone,
Yet with you.
We 
Texted
Of word and work,
Weather and 
Whether to 
Take that quick nap;
Wished 
'You were with me'.
Slow long kisses,
Warm clutching hugs,
Squished breasts,
Ticklish beard.
Feverish embrace,
The primal dance,
A sweaty mingle,
Breathless tangle,
Your wavy locks,
Caught in my curly longs.

We exchange
Each a picture.
I send one without my shirt,
And you pout with a mustache,
Of your whorly inky hair.

Was I?

Was I the spark,
Or the flint,
Or was I the burn?

Was I the cause,
Or the effect,
Or a mere aside?

Was I the stab,
Or the blade,
Or was I the blood?

Was I the hit,
Or the bump,
Or was I the crack?

Was I the bullet,
Or the gun,
Or was I the hand?

Was I the question,
Or the answer,
Or was I the doubt?

Was I the make-believe,
Or the meantime,
Or was I the test subject?

Was I the scream,
Or the shock,
Or was I the past?

Was I the construct,
Or the truth,
Or the unwanted mirror?

Was I a choice,
Or an option,
Or simply expendable?

Am I the wound,
Or the scar,
Or am I the pain?

Am I of any consequence,
Or with any life,
Or am I all just in vain?

Saline

Herding the silences in my mind
Memories mourned the lyrics,
Notes trembled within my heart,
As the song choked my throat,
And rolled off my brimming eyes,
Streaking the ignored stubble.
The pining alto stagnated, as
Its melody dried upon my face.
And all I was left with were
A few broken, saline verses.