Meandering pathways may meet at a point Like wandering travelers' collision. Like wind blown leaves that dance around - Pink, orange and red, and colours rain-fed, Waiting to be found.
* * *
Meandering pathways meet to diverge And collision courses divide. Like wind blown leaves that dance around - Yellow, brown and black, and colours lustre lack, Eventually hitting ground.
Day after day, to pen these words Pronouncing thoughts that you should have heard. Apologizing to paper and strangers' eyes Craving you in silence, and letting you die. Foolishly hoping you will chance this way Stumble on this site and hear all I say
I'll never be bold enough to ring your bell So a miracle, I beg, a charm or a spell Bursting at the seams, wishing I could yell.
It is said I often lie awake And talk to the moon Enchanting, bottomless eyes, They say, Of a rain-nymph in bloom. It is said, I often rise between trances And scan the streets As if looking for something; And then turn away, They say, Sighing.
I am a dead end With a ‘no-entry’ sign, It is said. And return home they all must, With their desires and hope Crumbling to dust. I’m often found staring at the stars, They say; And they wonder why. . . What is so intriguing ‘bout the sky?
They don’t know…
How you and I Under a halogen street light, would lie Melting constellations in each other’s eye, Making Moon a listener to our conversations As the night gently laughed by.
Until
That giant supernova That exploded across the sky Swallowed you so swift I could scarce let out a cry…
. .
And so it is said A girl is seen sitting by herself, Silently staring into the night. . . They don’t know,
Prologue Flashes of a luminous glow Swims like a Borealis across the sky. The cold compelling breeze Soothes my clammy skin. A quiet rumbling, Like the growl of angry hell hounds, Anticipates the coming.
Storm The sky unleashes electric snakes As the wind rips through houses and trees. Sweeping rain impinges upon the earth, Scrubbing the night clean To claps of deafening thunder. I stand, insignificant as a leaf, And watch in awe.
Of Divinity Even as temple bells are chiming, God has long left the altar to take a breath; And in the wake of this night's monster All is silent and dead. * Strange how such destruction calms my soul And makes a hard atheist like me, Hope.
Sitting in the darkening evening, The pages of my diary turning idly, A colossal sigh breaks free. . .
Could I write poetry enough To set the motions of my heart to words, Even you, cold-eyed one, Would feel my anguished yearning.
But I, being caught in shadows, Can only sit and watch in silence; The blank pages glowing in the blue eventide, And the black birds Singing their way back home.
The sky has turned a bluish grey. I hear the voices of the city - Words, music, traffic, train, And shrill laughter floating in the lane. The bells have begun to ring; An old woman Crouching in a corner of her terrace Blows the conch thrice. A white cat ambling by the road Cocks its head to listen, But deeming the prayers and noise the same Continues in its search for game. On a fifth floor balcony, a girl watches The silhouettes of birds flying back home. She has her own music, The kind that shuts you out and sets you free. Temporarily.
A train whistles in the distance Carrying lives afar and beyond. The evening grows dark, the moon rises, The wind lulls and blows; And life goes on. . .
We are out of time. No time for lasting triumph, No time to purpose our wealth. We are out of time. No second to spare a thought, No moment to reflect. We are out of time. The constant stars gaze down Silently watching us ground time. We are out of time. All of life is just a speck. A flash, a blink-of-an-eye. We are out of time Like little ants, Running Running Forever running out of time.
Cloud broke rank. She peeped silvery white from behind the screen. The dark disappeared. And the world slept on…
A gush of wind - And everything went black. Little diamonds looking down Searching out their loved ones, But the world slept on…
Black trees swaying gently to the hoots of owls, The night guard blew his whistle. She waited for him to leave so She could come out again. But who was to notice? For the world slept on…
Cloud shifted position again, And giggling, She stepped out. “Ha-ha! Found you!” Little Menon was in this game of hide- n-seek. He always is. The world is too mundane for him, And he too insignificant for the world to care. So he plays, And the world sleeps on…
“Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.” ~ Sylvia Plath