Stubborn Love

Just as the automated door,

Was about to close,

I saw you, upfront almost,

But to look away, I chose.

 

I noticed those image-building lies,

Reflecting now in your eyes,

But I couldn’t overlook the pious grace,

Given away by that forever grim familiar face.

 

Your hastened breaths,

Through the crowd, I could hear,

I wonder, if the beats were audible,

Emanating from this resilient heart here, 

 

I was in the process of discarding,

Vestiges from my life,

But today, changes everything,

Including my fed-up mind.

  

I do not know how,

To come back to you again.

Unwarranted words spoken in the past,

Bridges washed away by ensuing pain.

 

Like you, I might have become too stoic,

But the tendency to nurture love, survives.

And I couldn’t help it anymore,

In your presence, a lot revives.

 

You must now know,

I seek nothing in return,  

Take one step towards me,

I will script the rest of the sojourn.

 

Having seen the real world, 

Do you not agree?

The only world that ever mattered, 

Was the one you built with me?

About Sigmas and "everyone else"

A supercilious bitch learns,

His own worth, his own true nature,

His true place,

And now knows his one true master.

 

He shall wear 'this' collar forever,

A reminder of his reprehensible sin,

Of standing up to “The Tamer”.  

Lies destroyed, all he ever built.

 

Never misconstrue the master’s humility,

For weakness,

It emanates from the true lordship,

That inside him resides.

 

How dare you,

Think of him as one of your own,

Ignorance- He can overlook,

Arrogance- You should have better known.

 

He easily forgives,

But you bitch shall be chastised for life.

The presumed aftertaste of his dick in your mouth,

Till your last breath, shall stay in your mind.

Keepers

People with memories,

Primarily sharp, but also deep-

Repositories of histories;

Forever close, we must keep.

 

He happened to be,

At an old spot,

Where they used to sip tea;

A monument, long lost.

 

He feels some things,

As if it were all happening live,

Oblivious of other beings;

Although, he wasn’t high.

 

He notices though,

A plugged speaker,

In place of the usual radio;

Takes the phone from the shopkeeper.

 

Types something into the phone,

The song ends abruptly;

He stands at a corner alone;

As now hums Ghulam Ali-

“मुद्दतें गुज़रीं पर अब तक वो ठिकाना याद है”

 

Whoa! What words!

What life! You beauty!

What times! Those hearts! 

What setup! That tea!

Makeshift

 

Art is birthed in solitude,

As everything good needs

People who can first see,

Inside their own souls,

And then pierce others’ veils.

 

Rarely but surely,

That solitude comes,

When we are not alone.

Being at peace within,

In someone else’s presence.

 

And in rarest of rare cases,

Art is birthed in turmoil.

Like torrential rains,

Forcing the unnoticed moving,

Of an arm on a shoulder.

 

But where are those rains?

Those people? The time?

The rain and the people-

Outside our control.

Time, we must find.

 

Time’s been scarce here,

But intuition says,

It’s only a matter of little time,

For time to arrive- with solitude,

So, we can reassess who we are now,

And our relationship with words.