Dreams and Fragmentation
Dreams -
That I store in my
mind
Is fleeting as thin
air
Dwindling like flame,
Still, the dream
makes me
Dream all through the
way of
Breathing and living.
Fractured in places
Bruised and tied with
bands,
Pus and blood-
All paint the smell
Of nausea and
dislike,
Still, the dream,
being so big and not-so-big
Makes me dream the
dream
More than the numbers
of wounds
That I have received
in the midway.
Dreams,
Floating like the
clouds of autumn
Dreams,
Taking the structure
of autumnal Goddess
Dreams,
Make me dream
In my sleep
In my breathing
That I hold as
essential
In the body of my
soul.
Dreams, you are not
baffled
Dreams, you are the
breath of my self
My current state of
materiality
And you lose your watery essence.
The Frowning moustache
Joyful, joyless
souls,
Sitting on the
benches
Give an ear to the
words
Or dialogues written
by an old philosopher
His moustache does
not matter
As much as his tongue
From where some
messy, some organized
Letters come out
And make the world a
less obscure
Less foggy space,
Like the eye places
itself on the lens
To speculate the
spectacle;
These souls
Hop from one stair to
another
Replenishing their
Tabula rasa
With vowels and sound
To meet the end of a
year
And embrace the new
start
By wearing the ropes
of grades
And get defined as graduates.
The Belief
Belief is like a drop of tear
That runs down your cheek
And leaves its mark
On your face,
Just the way you forget to wipe off
Yesterday’s dream;
Rains shower on it
And you start seeing
A new dawn.
Belief is like a leaf,
It grows, falls and crosses
The lands
Floating and sailing through air;
It takes the shape
Of a cage -
What I call a heart.
Life
The whole misfortune
pours over me
As if I am a glass
My only task is to
hold
And let the life
happen.
It takes many people
to form a crowd
So does the life
Everyone’s life
Mostly-
Takes the disguise of
the novel
To say the little,
unnecessary things.
Fortunate are the
ones who say the things
Of their lives
In little words
Through poetry.
If we count the pages
of the book
As each passing day
of life
Hours will be
summarised in the sorrowful paragraphs
The seconds will be
painted
Through silence and
silhouettes.
Alas! The
trajectories of life-
Bending like river
Whistling like wind
Sometimes a brat,
sometimes a kind one-
Alas!
Like a musician,
Life sings the
melodies of spring.