Tired of the sea,

I need a tree that will hold my thoughts with birdsong;

not tides returning them along the shoreline to laughing gulls.

Thoughts as warm as a silky summer rain,
flowing over the edge of my soul's gentle.
 

Seasons slip by me

And my clothes remain the same.

I have become too insular.

Cold silence,
and a warm duvet pushing me;
intermittently in and out of tranquil dream.

The stars are but tears
shed by a miriad
of unrequited dreams;
each sparks with fire
and guides its light homeward
when a dream is revealed.

poems open doors;
that don't even exist.

All my time has been a raindrop,
Sparkling and shimmering down a pane;
Ultimately to vanish.

On the coffee table is a framed photograph;
the glass smeared with my mouth.

I hear the witches incantations,
their spells woven through fantasy, longing and a reality
draped in conservatism.

We all have our safe places, where none are invited. They are lonely rooms full of the musk of memory. Sanctuary rather than adventure.

There is a light within our soul that burns brighter than the sun. And we ignore it.

Those masks we wear
not to shield others; but ourselves from who we are.

convoluted distortions,
scripting thoughts without meaning
yet hold a feeling of
what was once known but forgotten in growing up.

ghosts of memories
resonate and chase
yesterday into today,
living parallel lives
in separate realities.

All these mirrors

carnival distortions

of selves we never were.

Paintbrush in water fascinates me sometimes more than colors as it's the state where imagination actually decides the destiny of the canvas.

that piece of you I hold inside always searching
for the part of me
in you.

 ഋതുക്കളുടെ മേല്‍ പ്രണയത്തിന്‍റെ ചോര പൊടിയുന്ന കയ്യൊപ്പുകള്‍ കാണാം, കവിതകളെ.

Soothe me or hurt me, I'm paralyzed anyway.