I’d be the simplest of all men
waiting and watching the sunset
and would remember the day
when we shared this melancholy of red horizons
on the bench, with a subtle wind
running its fingers through your hair
but then it’d be night and I’d walk away.
In my dreams
I keep roaming these streets
with cobwebs in the windows
and gossamer in the sky.
There is this beetle on the wall
and it’s going to give me a sleepless tonight.
I’m certain it is not a lady
with black polka dots and red
(else I would’ve nothing to fear)
but a corrosive hardened green which creeps me out
and when it creeps on my wrist
I will be washing my hands in the sink
To ward off the fear and stink
And the rest of the night
it’s going to be a Boogeyman under my bed.
I just can’t get out this thought out of my head.
You beetle, who makes me sweat in the damp night
I’ll find you and I’ll step on you
And I’ll be strong again.
Day one, it enthralls.
An artwork is created,
a fulfillment of desire,
a little sepia radiates.
Day two, it burns bright.
The artwork is shaped
to artist’s eyes the fire,
the fine details to admire.
Day three, it glows steadily.
In background it blends
a duller tone subtends,
but keeps the artist warm.
Day four, more hue changes.
All in the eyes,
artist aware and writes,
depth not lost on them.
Day five, sunset.
In a moment of urban loneliness,
I try to fathom what am I doing with my life.
Late at night, staring at the brightly lit screen
emotions swell up in me, to express which these digital emotions don’t suffice.
They just stand there, in their characterizations
plainly and shamelessly inquiring me of their purpose. One of them smirks.
I will trade these endless nights of staring at black screens for one solitary night under the stars.
But we’re urban. We don’t exist anymore. The sky doesn’t exist.
The Milky Way has faded to cede space to spotlights. And headlights.
But we’ll be content with smiling at those dimly lit screens whose batteries die as we behold our faces beholding us right back.
Subversive, yet divine. The ethereal bliss lies in selfies.
PS: When I look at myself in the mirror, The Scream is painted. And Francis Bacon laughs away in darkness.
are ghosts of graveyard
whiling their time away.
The rain crashes against the glass window
blurring the space between me and out
the impressions race down, one at a time
painting a subtle portrait of a face melted
into an existential crisis of droplets.