That Summer

A summer when sunshine drips,
ants dig and snakes hide,
and trees sway, desperate,
to find some shade,

In that summer, I lost my hope,
and my thirst.
my power to trudge,
my zeal to live,

It was’nt the heat,
nor the sweat,
but a love so deep,
that I had lost,

In that summer,
I had in my hands,
pieces of me, broken
I withered that summer.

While I waited and prayed,
not for rain,
not the sun to hide,
I prayed only for you,
to drench me back to life.

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Was That My Soul?

She soars high,
Becoming one,
with the heavens above,
Is that my soul,
or is it merely a bird.

I squint to see,
through the orange sun,
yet, all I can see,
is a fleeting hue,
A hue of indigo blending,
with the blue of the skies.

And then, as I watch on,
The blob of red hides,
under the horizon,
The skies descend into darkness.

With a sigh, I turn to go.
And as I enter,
into my own darkness,
as the abyss sucks me in,
I still wonder,
was that my soul,
Or was it merely a bird.

The Moon

It was the winter of unrequited love, when the cracks of her broken heart froze in place, and when her broken being was determined to never mend, ever again.
Today, her mind is hazy about how she passed time during those days when darkness had become a part of her life. She remembers just one thing.
At nights, when sleep eluded her and her heart bled yet again, she would walk up to her bedroom window. And find the moon waiting.

It surprised her how the moon, when it had the whole sky to itself, could possibly be always visible from her window.

In those starry nights, she would curl up in the window sill and wonder what the moon wanted to tell her. Her thoughts would alternate between her lost love and the brightness of the moon. As the winter turned into summer, the love in her heart that had turned into pain subsided, making more room for the moonlight. And then came a day when it was only the blue ethereal light that filled her being. Those sleepless starry nights and her rendezvous with the moon had made her slowly pick up the pieces of her broken life. 

Today, she is secure in her place under the sun and happy with a replenished love and a new life.

And the moon remains her friend, the moon that had peeked into her window every night and reminded her that she, too could shine through darkness.

A Paradox

In the midst of a storm, I calm down,

In the calm of the night, my storm rages,

A paradox I am.
I am both Yin and yang,

I am perfect, and I am not,

I am Delphic, and I am common,

a paradox I am.

I search for sorrow in joy,

I strive for joy in grief,

the blue skies scare me,

the dark clouds rouse me,

A paradox I am.

A mystery, yet decipherable,

I breathe in darkness,

when all I want is light,

A paradox I am.

The Angel

Her, I spy,as I walk on by,

I stop and stare,

she sparks desires of which I have never known,

Of a fire, of a love that lies bare.
As I reach out, she breathes light,

a light that blinds me, it is so bright.

I grope, I fumble, I search,

again out I reach, for just one touch,

Oh, is that a void I see now!
A void that must have held her,

moments ago,

When she was so near,

That I could almost hold her,

yet, now it is just emptiness,

that greets me, and mocks me.
She must have been an angel

Who breathed light

A light so bright

that it still dazzles my heart.

The Scar

Life can come undone easily, like a single yarn which, if pulled, can take apart an intricately knitted sweater.Elsie did not know that. She was too buoyant to know that. And naive enough to fall in love with him. The one with the scar. 

She was too late to know that that the scar ran deep, into his soul. 

He was a drug dealer, a bad sort, as her grandmother would have told her. Had she been alive.

She went deeper into the abyss with him, snorting drugs, making love, snorting drugs again.

By the time she realised who she had turned into, she could see no light at either end of the tunnel.

The day an overdose killed her, she had been to the church. She had prayed. For peace. In the other side. 

And she made sure the overdose killed him too. The scar in his soul would no longer slice into someone else’s life.

A Wait

I see him in spurts, sometimes taking the bins out, sometimes washing his old pick-up truck.Through the blinds, I see his slitted form.

Ah, he is not slitted, my view is. 

And I know it will remain as is forever. I know I will never have the courage to set foot outside again. To walk up to him. My scars are painful, the mirror shows me my horrible, deformed, ugly form.

Yet, I wait for him. I wait for him to somehow see me and feel me behind the blinds, see my yearning and my love, see me beyond my ugliness.

I wait for life, neither alive nor dead, burrowing deep into my own self, waiting him to make me whole and alive again. A wait that will never be over.