Narcissus Sees

                     Picture: The Son of Man by Rene Magritte

Narcissus sees

a nebulous reflection

of his perfection

and he flees.

The murky seas

that obscure conviction,

are they perception

or grease?

Cathartic sprees,

to end recollection

are but self-affliction

and disease.

Storms- they cease,

become fiction

and springs affection

as tears freeze.

So until one frees

one's own reflection,

one is the imperfection

Narcissus sees.

The Gay and the Gray

                           Picture Courtesy: Google

Fate stands acquitted

in this court of justice,

while I am admitted

a sinner, and exhibited;

Love, my accomplice,

Religion, the winner.

"Guilty", they retort,

"Gay", "ghost", "gross".

"Crime", they report.

"Odd", they revolt,

bitter and cross.

They do it for God.

I know not why they spar-

what is their goal?

Those who gazed at the star

and dealt with the scar-

They seek not the soul.
They have not felt.

Hues

The hills painted white,

Red trickling down the eye-

And Envy is green.

Knit Me a Lie

                                         Picture Courtesy: Google, Picasa

Like rhymes churned
to hold soldiers
to field;
try tasks and parts
until they die-

When times turned
their cold shoulders
to me,
I asked my heart,
"Knit me a lie."

A Haiku that Happened

Whirling of her skirts,
a chequered carpet beneath-
sunset dawns outside.

On Being Unreasonable

                                   Picture Courtesy: Google

I do it because I cannot do otherwise
than being not before your eyes.
I do it because it looks a compromise
that kills me so you may rise.

I do it because I need to disguise
this soul, this heart and its cries.
I do it because I'd heard your sighs
and thought for once, to be wise.

I do it because, although, a surprise,
I know you'll someday surmise
that I do it because I see what lies
ahead of this day as my prize.

Let Him

                       Picture Courtesy: Google
                   ('The Kiss' by Auguste Rodin)

Let dreams not captivate my love tonight,
let my distant cries now be heard by him.
Let memories of me not haunt his sight-
My face before his eyes; the rest be dim.

Let hands not reach for stars that shine so bright,
let them be burned by cold wits or at whim.
Let moons procure not what he knows of 'light'-
aflame, my heart be christened this by him.

Let him succumb to anything but night;
let him but come and kiss this crimson rim,
drink the passion and be drowned with its might-
Let him, let him, let him, let him, let him. . .