Unamused: A Muse

aimlessly blinking at the sight of my ceiling and a steadily squeaking fan with its last couple breaths to fall into a perpetual slumber

has this gloom room always been so pink i think to myself or has my nonchalance overpowered my ability to feel the melancholic shades of umber?

often conflicting my way to the prismatic times that have long withered away but were once an everlasting trace of mirth and merriment

has this supposedly accustomed trudge to people from past and compassion from crypt been put to sleep or has my unfinished ode no longer the heart to vent?

strolling to a delightful feel-good and cinematic piece of art only to at least reverberate the dead muse in me alive

has this intermittent indulgence in the drama and thriller of frames probably overdone to almost done or has the monochrome greyed out my fantasising ability to the archive?

eventually turning to my old fella often called by the name of music for my selfish solacement and to inspire introspection

has this song struck a chord within me for far too long to remember the feeling of it anymore or has my nerve forgotten to dance to the tunes of subdued retrospection?

Whiskey Sour

devouring the last drink
of this deviously empty night
while gazing from the city skyline
squinting my eyes at the view so bright
and slurring at poetry but promising
to rework it the next day light

an unconscious deal with Jameson & Johnnie
intoxication to turn into sobriety again
for the cocktail didn’t have answers anymore
only so long for my troubled heart in vain
the starry night witnessed this saying
fuck your sad drink, let’s open a champagne!

and with yet another last drink in my hand
believing it to be distilled to attain richness
like it was the last grieving men’s only choice
and gulping it neat like nobody’s business

gradually giving up on my temporary fix
for the momentary normalcy it brings
is hard to skip in a heartbeat
from a decade old music playing on loop
in my stereo of indie void as
play > stop > repeat

Far-Fetched Forever

brushing the crimson off my long face and
letting my bedridden heart breathe for once,
what possibly could’ve been
a nightmare of forever
had instead been the throes
of passionate love dance,
a forlorn attempt over and again
for an ethereality
but a freckle between us
incessantly being a bitch in trance,
gathering the ruins & rubble
of this lifeless show we put
if i were to audition again
for the game of hearts
i would say no fucking chance!

Texture Of Hope

listen closely for they recite sacred prayers
standing atop a mountain so densely covered in palette of greens, sky painting the hues of blues and hymns of birds in their unisonous melody

had me believing in fabricated tales of hopefulness that i often whisper to myself, how exquisitely beautiful is the enigma of nature, a lot better than a human mind’s complexity

listen closely for their swaying has a sound
the gusting wind through the fields of gold and yellow, unbridled by any force, drawing silhouettes over the canvas of my face with mystical serenity

and to meander around in the arms of earthy smell with the trees of height reaching the skyline like it’s no big deal, but to feel like a sand granule in the grandiose of nature’s being paradoxically

listen closely for the pitter-patter can heal
the whimpering slow sound of rain meeting the dead leaves and muddy soil, capable of traversing you through therapeutic music needed about moderately

throwing some heavenly light from in-between the thick branches, like the corners of my house illuminating in the festival of Diwali maintaining a peaceful aura to work for us favourably

listen closely for cracks in wall leaks light
amidst the exhaustingly frenzied times as these, a wee bit of hopeful picture painted in acrylic of a world held on pause outside, is the kind of healing needed constantly

Love Letters

a postcard was dropped by today
and with that the trail of
my beloved’s sweet-scented aches.
the mailman has me recognised by now
for a woman who writes to his darling
and longs for his return every hour of the day.
the constant yearning for three years
has made me ancient for my heart
can only hold so much torment.
but with gushing emotions nevertheless
i ran up the spiralled staircase and
silently sat next to my candle-lit desk.
this mellowed evening had suddenly
withered all birds into their homes,
lanes growing less chaotic and
the sky above watching in wonder.
he writes to me —
“a beautiful man in my neighbourhood
plays the classical melodies on flute,
specially the yaad piya ki aaye thumri
every evening lullabying the sunset to sleep,
the birds to dream and me to fall in the abyss
of reminiscing your sweet voice.
to hear the waves crashing by the shore
and watch the sun slyly go,
i might have turned grey aching for
the sound of your anklets and
a glimpse of my darling as she’d move to & fro.
we’ve been in a debatable conversation,
the night sky and i.
for what could be more enchanting or
unfathomably darker than your eyes?
wouldn’t you want to come here, my love
and settle the bet like there’s no lies?
but when i rest into the seemingly long night,
my head floats around the memories
of watching you watch me through the mirror
with coy smiles and suggestive gestures,
eventually longing for every inch of you
turning my nights into longest restless hours
my dear, the ever changing weather here
takes me on a nostalgic ride every now & then
for when it pours, my heart cries a song of its own
and when it’s fall, wearing my heart on sleeve i shed a few walls”
— the candle light started to wither after all
and the cuckoo came out of her home
as what it seemed like was the time of dawn
here i was, six years later too
re-reading your letters anew.

The Homeless Wanderer

he looked weary as though
all these years have not only aged him
but also strained his capacity to emote
he could once convey his sappy feelings for
his century old love that he claimed
was at an apparent first sight
and only with the rarest touch of emotion
you’d find him giving half a smirk and
a full flushed cheek
the wrinkled skin and creasing lines
on his temples would now tell a story
of period before the seeming civilisation
showing an aftermath to some catastrophe
probably surviving his own terrors and wars
only to eventually find peace within
he’d keep looking from side to side
with the shimmering eyes that were
about close to losing the only hope
as though he’s drawn enough breaths for
this lifetime and another
like his deathbed awaited him
for the last supper
the crumpled hair on his head & the face
a mix shade of burnt umber and grays
were starting to show colours of his wisdom
as it had faded into gracelessness
of his rugged being
even with the features full of dripping misery
my two and a half minute of glance
fixated on this man at the station
urged me to capture him in a poetry
for my life is but a bundle of these moments
for i feed my soul the likes of an age old drama