Morning Kiss

Have you ever woken up early enough in the morning to feel a slight twinge of cold reaching out through your toes as you lay half dead in your bed not wanting to get out? It’s a good day.  You haven’t opened the windows to see the sky or anything but you know that it’s a good day and everything is going to be perfect…as perfect as brown fuzzy cashmere goat kids bouncing on lush green hillside. Or more precisely as perfect as autumn leaves swiveling in the air to a rhythm of their own, trying to reach the ground as the sun kisses the sky in a most gentle and tangy peach.

I Sit Rabbit-less

I sit under the bed. It is dark all around me. I can make out the outline of the furniture in the room. The furniture is heaving and breathing heavily and I seem to be hiding from these lurking monsters under the salvage protection of mine, hugging my knees close to my chest. My toes are cold and numb but I can feel sweat trickling down my hunched shoulders. I can see the legs of the chest of drawers. I know its waiting for me outside and the moment I get out the drawers will snap open and envelope me in its pitch darkness. I will be shut and locked in those drawers forever and they will make sure that the keys are thrown in some ditch or may be a rabbit hole that is abandoned. A part of me wishes that I was Alice and some White Rabbit could run down a few ditches and holes trying to find the keys for the locked drawers and fervently looking at his pocket-watch and singing, “ I'm late. I'm late. For a very important date. No time to say "Hello."  Goodbye.  I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.”…

A Winter Toast

I want to crunch crispy corn flakes and sip chocolate-flavoured milk with the sharp eccentric tinge of cocoa with its bitter sweet essence. I want to dive into a lake of warm and zesty spring water and feel the water slide over and under my skin like liquid gold under the cold momentary stare of a winter sun. I want to live. I want to smile with a glint in my eyes that says yes. What am I agreeing to, I know not myself. But yes, I’ll say yes to a smile with the a warm flicker in my eyes like the one that you sometimes see in a small bonfire on the beach on a freezing winter night, while you sit snuggled in your blanket. Snuggling up to that worn-out blanket and just smiling to yourself.

Whimsical Megrim

I see dreams flickering in eyes,
And a whim to catch those fireflies.

The climax of the story is known to none,
but to see abandoned cottages stumble is sometimes fun;
We know not was it the snow,
Or the emergence of a new one.

But, I like to imagine.
Imagine,
Honeysuckle hovered over by moths.

Lets Take Fireflies Instead of the Plane

It is raining.

The city is drenched, and so is everyone else.

Drenched in their own sweat and reeking of hypocrisy and a sense of never-ending hatred.

Hate would be a small word, it would be more appropriate to call it utter abhorrence.

An exotic bird sits on the highest branch of the tallest tree in the city and looks around the soggy city clumsily melting in the sweat and stink of its own people. All the houses and the roads the buildings have been painted a slate grey. It’s a law of the city and those who dare not follow it are lavished with the army of cockroaches of the city’s mayor, and we know cockroaches.

These are a special breed, almost extinct now had not the mayor encouraged his trustworthy attendants to breed them with all the love and care that his sweat could buy. These cockroaches are 8 feet long and their tentacles are a crispy shiny black. The mayor dotes on them.

The bird’s eye is a myriad of colours as if stolen from the rainbow and he knows that if the mayor is made to notice him, he would not be treated with much respect. His eye glints as he scans the melancholy, grey and monotonous city below.

With this last glance, he spreads open his turquoise wings and glides away in search for a land more peaceful, a land where the bird can breathe freely and spread his wings without the fear of them being burned, for he is no phoenix who can reincarnate from his own ashes. He is an ordinary yet exotic bird, who dares to do what comes to him naturally; fly.

Lets Tear Their Flesh Apart Tonight

I’m engulfed by a sense of profound silence all around me. People say that silence means the absence of sound but I disagree. Silence is the sound of a blank paper, a white canvas, an empty dark room and a hungry mouth. I want to break this silence.

I want to scream and spill ink on the paper, cover the canvas in frenzied ecstasy of paint as that of Jackson Pollock. I want to illuminate the room with light so that it breathes life into the lumps of dead meat lying astray in there. I want the hungry mouth not only to be fed with the most delicious food to satisfy its hunger but also with a few questions to feed the hungry soul’s brains.

 We need food. We all need light and a multitude of ink and paint spilling and dribbling everywhere as if a pack of hungry wolves are set afree after a long time and now nothing, absolutely NOTHING can stop them from seeking what they want. I know its dark and the woods are cold, but I know for sure that the wolves would sleep a sleep of satisfaction tonight.

From Z to W

You had so much to say to me. You talked to me all the time but did I ever have a moment on my hands to hear you out, or even once. No. I never did. Never.

I close my eyes and gulp. It hasn’t been easy to explain to anyone. Apparently, they call you the keychain with the starfish made of red felt.

You talked to me of the tides that were high and low. How you had travelled in the sea and now you yearned to return to.

Your words had a halo around them as they walked over the beach towards me but I never even cast them a slight glance. I got out of the car and forgot you were lying in my lap and getting out meant you slipped down on the busy road somewhere just waiting to be squished over by some raging driver honking ludicrously.

I’m sorry or forgetting you and all that you have done for me all along and I know sorry isn’t even a word. What are words but a random combination of alphabets. I’m lost in this myriad of alphabets of languages long forgotten which are stuck in a hurricane along with our modernity.