This too shall pass

what happened of enlightenment
the sage of copenhagen laments
the light of an age rests in plunder
stepping on promises abandoned over transient wonders

the last of his blunts was burnt out
his often clairvoyant eyes, now weary in self-doubt
chasing the trail of an illusive scent
in stark dilemma his strength was spent

his face flushed in mistrust
poised to strike, if he must
the veins on his arms holding back a swelling storm
to his own accord his thoughts would not conform

the wind on his face,
still made him to contemplate
this too shall pass, said the sun on his back
poetry on his mind was bebop,
trap smack

The Applause

To understand the universe in patterns on dirt
in clairvoyance to estimate the worth
of contemplation on hate, of the knowledge of love
in plain sight their faces are rubbed

with the the rhythms of their heart beat
either to sing out loud, or to accept defeat
either to embrace shame or to feed their rage
no matter still, all world’s a stage

and life is but, what once was
the promise of an undying applause
and carrying the beats, and even much late
are the beats from heart,
those of love, or that of hate

Let me love

However wiser and a year older
as austere April arrived in a smoulder
to find us sewing our lives together
with the thread of the daily humdrum
what our wishful thinking will again
have it all over undone

Before the monsoon clouds come rolling in
and cast their shadows like a zepplin
before the rain, the gentle rain
becomes the ominous downpour
the may queen, the indian summer
surged in on an encore

and the rain came tumbling down
drowning in its cold embrace
every deluded soul on the streets,
every weary brick in the town
and so it goes, as legends say
to the scorn of sky from above
In a gentle cry, the earth replies
‘Let me love’
‘Let me love’

An Idea Sleeps

In complete isolation, blanketed in silence an idea germinates
feeding on an abundance of potential that is both vigour and stealth
and that which historically has been the cause for much unadulterated rage
that which will consume oneself before the page turns over
to the ancient streets emptied of its dreams
where once the occasional woebegone man would run out screaming
of heartache and the loss of god, wandering in hopeless nights
now abandoned of any such dramatic performances
where this new found idea now sleeps
yet too somber to be made ridiculous into a misplaced dilemma .

On the road (Rendezvous)

Hither the traveller find themself on the road
the fabulous yellow roman candle existence exploding like spiders across the stars
The traveller carries on rather not cajoled by ten different voices speaking of the otherwise
and hither they carry on their unapologetic rendezvous with the road
the stories, the songs, the symphony that dissolves the day into the night
and the night perhaps precipitates to let the day breathe
and what remains of this is the romance with the oblivion
the love beyond all the loving of the world, the embrace of the unknown
the thrill in what the road might bring just around the bend
the kiss of the wind, the gaze of the horizon, the dance of dust, clairvoyant clouds
and this timeless dialogue continues


You are a vision

You are a living, breathing entropy

of estimates, ambitions, assessments, foregone identities,

All that was about to be yet materialised otherwise, everything that could have been, but rather was not.

You are a vision realized in its unfulfillment

You are abundant in your incompleteness, convinced in your quandaries, absolute in your relativisim.

You are a vision nurtured by a longing that in its own humble self is a stable quantum of possibilities, made relevant by their ability to remain a possibility, an isolated continuum of potential in preservation.

You are a vision conceived in the abyss of your latent intellect, spiralled into the realms of existence, like whispers of sweet promises whilst you are tickled by the routine passage of chance, or perhaps you are leaden with delirium. (for that is what possibility feeds on, your indifference or your preoccupation and everything in between)

The Lift

3 square foot in fashion steel
and on either side in between concealed
by the doors on brute magnetic force
as well the reflection running its course
which to the passenger multitude
was much comforting in its delude

as the mirror image and the retinue
in this journey continued
while from above and through the walls
a silent zephyr of might too small
for no human sense could it touch
yet the nascent wind aphostrophized as such

that only a petal on some cascade fall
was the solitary listener to the breeze’s call
for every vein on that surface red
chirped in joyance in good stead
and contained the joy in an anxious hurray
lest this moment quick fade away.