Swalaat

This morning,
I listen to this blood breathing peace,
in these veins—
I wear prayers.

Because

This morning's silence
I write a wordless requiem
to dead dreams
and deferred hopes.

Expeditionism

Dive in and rise slowly
to be on a journey,
exploring the oceans of reasonings.

Dreamcatcher

A dream
caught between feathers and beads
reminiscence foretold.

Delhi

The cold is its own cave.
The dream pops and crackles,
rapidly cooling after I leave it.
I close my eyes and it's dew in a cavern.

A jar full of ribbons;
shreds of her colours
cut from his soul,
released to the wind
flying
showing her the way.

In the dappled light
There's a change in direction;
Refractions of me.

Aforethought

I walk in the spaces
between the real
and the imagined.

Like moths to flame,
we are drawn
to the chaos of our shatter.

Melting into rivers
of ink
I pooled into poetry;
Where nature settled
into a smooth embrace
stirred only by the wind
and fishes.

Too intimately tangled
to unwrap these thoughts
of mine, from yours.

There's a time
at the beginning
of love

you make
your own
weather

whatever the weather is
it is unfailingly
fine.

The music playing
into my hands
the ink of a poet's pen
too dark for reflection
in uneasy light.

Incognito

words sliced open
spilling sticky syllables.

The rhythmic drip, drip,
dripping of rain from the eaves
blends with constant soft, sweet whispers
of countless drops kissing the leaves.

Rain is looming
Let's walk on the edge
Of dry and wet
Ambulate the flumes.

Though you've been gone for years and the tears have long since dried still your scent adheres to the walls (still empty on your bedside)

Atop strange barricades
waving stranger flags.
We may bemoan the happenings
but are resolved to let them be.

We all have our secret places we carry with us all our lives. But time makes them so mythic we sometimes wonder whether they existed at all.

I stirred the fallen leaves
in a walk of dream.
There was no destination.
But each footfall woke a thought in hibernation.

Once thoughts crawl
out of dark corners
and onto white pages,
all fragments compete for expression,
to witness the greater whole.

I’d write to you
if my words were limbs-
capable enough to touch you.

I'm tired of words,
but somehow they
bridge the distance between us.

Ashes pour
through his bloodshot eyes
as the fire inside of him dies.

I nuzzle into you
Finding your heartbeat
That soothe of its beating
Nested in your eyes.
If could stay, just there
a lifetime.

Beyond the afar cloud
a song
turning off sunlight,
I can breathe but silence.

Beneath a saddened twilight
My teardrops mirrored;
Your still face.

Beneath a saddened twilight
My teardrops mirrored;
Your still face.

I found you
in that secret place
where
kindred souls dwell
in between
the wonder.

a favorite memory,
tucked behind her ear like a flower.
its fragrance follows.
its beauty illuminates her face.

Infinitesimal instances of green burst in the trees.
The woods in its infancy, expands,
a pastel cloud darkening, gathering shade.

Analog clock eats
the time, hour,
minute, second hands
push minutes into its face,
devouring moments
like a baby her finger food.

I am a drop;
rain drop.
I am happiness,
and in single drop
I am ocean
of melancholy.

There is a cloud lilting with curious birdsong.
It folds and carefully wraps the ancient hill.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.
Most of my beholders are blind.

I feel every single word
they slice the edges of my soul
I bleed syllables, 
consonants and vowels
dripping  onto parchment.

There,
stretched in perfect symmetry;
the tombs of lovers,
since the first breath was drawn..

He tore
A shred of moon-shine
to wrap these moments.

Memphis,in a valley of Kings;
early morning,rifleman propped up,
bent on murder
another dream deferred.

I want to douse myself in silver words
and whisper away all rue.

Let me devour your silence;
with the screams of one unaccustomed to screaming.

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.

After a breath and before another, there's plenty of time to rest.

Even dead fallen leaves go a long way with the wind before getting crushed.

As the train picks up momentum
moving to the destination,
mind plays thoughts in rewind
turning back the wheel of time.
I've already started missing you.

perhaps,
every scent is another part of the poem,
where words stop,bend and listen
to the rustle of wind
for instance,when grabbed,
sky to loam.

did you capture your essence
and seal it behind glass
as often as I have ?
somewhere in life's reaches,
I used to be a child
who loved to laugh.

find cracks to fall in,
wings are only escalators
fissures between here and there,to fly,
all one must do,
is kill the disbelief of Love,
in you!

I breathe clean
I refuse to step
into that fake sordid lost world.
What's hidden is
hidden for a reason.
Keep it.