Thursday, 29 June 2017


My fluttering pages knew, for each time,
You walked through a rue singing its song, for,
Each time, you dived into afflictions,
Bloating your palate, with,
Walking the grievous, yet ravishing the sublime,
You inked me with all the times, you,
Crystallised yourself with the silhouette of others,
Just how a barista demands for the milk,
To dance its way into the coffee's life,
You inked me with all the times, you,
Morphed beautifully when autumns touched you,
And flushed everyone in all the tinges that shaped you,
You inked me with all the times, you,
You were a rain-laden, lone, dark cloud,
Efflorescing a flower in me, each time you poured,
I came to you with folded edges, and bleeding covers,
With blankness in pages, you coloured me up,
With the simple, and the difficult,
With the together, and the alone,
With the Van Gogh, and the Hemingway,
With the stories, and the slags, all the same,
I came to you with haemorrhaging lines,
And you wrote to me, wrote in me,
Inking in me, an anchor forever.



Saturday, 24 June 2017

Lost On The Perry

Drib by drib, all the water ambitiously flowed,
Over its head to climactically reach where the world began,
Each time the water surges over it, only the rock knew,
What seemed like pelting to the world,
Were a thankful million different kisses and marks,
The Creek left over each minute,
To keep the pebbles from echoing its name,
And halting its journey,
Seldom do people realise the lull sung,
Of the gushing water,
Is the Creek's love bleeding out on its land,
For it knows it's soon to depart to a world untouched,
Even better when it rains, for there's,
Nothing better than being loved your lover, and,
Being haunted by them at the same time,
With the constant love, the constant contact,
It felt like the Creek's touch yet time and again,
Was just another echo of how much it adored the gravel,
That helped him with such grace at,
Every turn, the mountains were malevolent of their semblance,
And while the world saw the fervour of the coral beneath,
As an anarchy,
Her Creek pacified each pebble beautifully,
And she let him, 
For there lied her tendency to blindingly,
Drown in him, yet again, the longing to stay alive
Only to be picked and stuffed in a jar,
For when will the world comprehend,
Each of them rocks formed ludicrously, was only,
Creek trying to break his way through the mountains' many hearts,
The many hearts she granted to be broken,
For someone could fathom,
The beauty of breaking hearts, and letting their,
Own Creek through,
And I hear a louder hush again,
The kind, she knew, came with early darknesses,
One with the power to remove all her piths,
One that left her all marrows, and in all vulnerabilities,
Now only remains the cobbles and the rain,
The calm beyond, the chaos within,
The little heartbreaks you carry around with you,
And I was lost on the Perry.



Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Love in Odium

And most times it would remain about the sheer acrimony of everything that contacted you through those tips like hot wax pouring on your skin, each time you pulled out the ill-fated diary. For, each time, you would try to corral her onto your rag of mishaps, your chagrin spread like wildfire all over the pulp, every time your prose approaches with lesser dignity but such allure, the time she validated your existence in her life. For, each time, you spoke of the winters she carried, you reminisced her pasty hands wrapped in the rusty gloves, reminding you of Christmas morning around your expiring pyre. For, each time, you would try to scrawl about trust being the first step to betrayal, you would fondly tell the worn leathers about your birthday that fateful year. For, each time, you curse her narcissism obnoxiously, I hear whispers of you humming a sonnet of her altruism when you found those orphans. For, each time, you would boast over the beer of having held her down the longest, you shut your blotters around everyone, lest anyone would read and put together untold morsels of her ballads. For, each time, you wrote about how much of a conceited tart she was, I feel a polemical rant erupting about Kipling and Dickens. For, each time, you tried to collar her in your inscriptions, I see you lighting her stories up in fire to keep you hoarded with her warmth every night. For, each time, you gasconade about your seclusion, I see you reaching for that last raindrop slithering its way through the tree, hoping you could create and destroy her again, in your own piddly rainbows.

To spring,