Choice

       Picture: Own attempt. Morphed myself and the muse into a... a meaning?

The curtains drawn-
a noose hangs
in vain.

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

Whose nook is it-
she's lain with a book
for days.

The loose noose-
it's not beyond
her gaze.

But the nose
in a book...
And she won't look.

They call her a goose;
her nose
in a book!

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

Hooked, unhooked-
shook hands
with a book.

The noose
is loose;
not beyond her gaze.

For days
she's lain in vain
and she knows.

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

She's got to choose;
they call her
a goose.

She's lain for days;
the noose hangs
in vain.

The nook,
the book and
curtains drawn.

She's got to choose-
the noose hangs
in vain.

No, she won't look-
it is the book
again.

It's the book again.

Metaphors

                                   Picture Courtesy: Google

He says the world's a stage
and that he fakes for wage.
He says he's a player;
someone who's come of age.

He says he's got a part
and that he plays it smart.
He says he's a player;
someone who'd soon depart.

He says the act will end
and then he shall descend.
He says he's a player;
someone who can pretend.

He says the world's a stage
and that he makes a wage.
He says he's a player,
come of age; bound to age.

He calls the world a stage
and says he's bound to age.
He says he's a player
forever in bondage.

The Quietus

                     Picture: The Lovers II by Rene Magritte

Each breath expended
in living your dreams
could buy me the trifle
they call life.

But I think I'd rather
be broke than
choke my love
for you.

Yes, I've this silence
that you believe
shall save me.
What have I
save this silence?

I ascribe the reserve
to your care.
Or is it your death?
Or is it that you
mourn for me?

They raised a toast
to love tonight.
What do I care?
I've had my share
of pine-ing...
ing-ing-ing-
Bah.

I'll spend my nights
guzzling sounds
that could have been.

I'll scavenge leftovers
from memories
that have succumbed.

I'll have the whirlpool
walk to you.
And I'll waltz through it
when you call me.

Will you call me then?

Bootless Bouts

                                 Picture: Eros and Psyche

Has the Night
talked you into
sleeping
without me?

What about me?
I do not hear
the promises
Silence makes.

The floor feels cold
against my feet;
I need shoes
to end sensation.

The creaking bed
has but
no blood
to offer me.

I do not die.
I live
in vain
without you.

Silence hurts
the most
when it
talks about you.

Gates

                                             Picture: Own handiwork

He made it
to the Golden Gate
while I
waited
for the Indian sun
to lose its gold
to the sea.

I waited
for shadows
and black silhouettes-
to trap them
like mice
into my meshed
memory.

He waited
for a second
gold rush
while I
hush-hushed
the sea
in its loud reverie.

I made it
to the morning's blur
while he
walked unaided
in the Stones of the Sur
and joined
in the coterie.

He'd sated
the Golden State
with his
energy
while I
returned to one long
journal entry.

I waited
for anything but him
while he
made it
to me
like a whim-
that ill-fated referee.

He waited
for me
to be free
while I
faded
trying
to agree.

A Tribute

   Picture: Richard - III performed by Natrang and Rangroots theatre 

                                    at Amar Mahal, Jammu

Benign the night that brought thy acclaimed selves

to pour to eyes that pine for plays divine,

a fact, an act with tact of playful elves;

a tale, like ale that could prevail past nine.

What math, the hour that hath power and wrath!

What myth, this lore, told not before; how blithe

were we, to see the London Tower bath

the skies with gore; the floor became a scythe!

Who could foretell this spell that would compel,

us beings to stay until kindled anew

with feelings such that even Time’s bosom swell;

who knew that you would come to our rescue!

Remember thee, we will until we breathe,

for thou canst have more than what thou bequeath.

Divorce

                                             Picture: Google, Picasa

I let a confession soar,
soar so high
as to transcend the sky.

But little did I know
that transcendence
needs shattering.

So the sky cracked
like the glass
on my window
and its shards
were lost
to the endless void
that is my heart-
a gluttonous black hole.

What of the confession?
I own it no more.