Poetic Illusion
Lightness descends
in my head
as a brief vision of yours
reincarnate within me
you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion
an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations
and I read you very slowly
like one of my own written creations.
for I have been a starving reader
all my life
and you were finally
an end to my starvation.
Shadows – Haiku
shadows swirl slowly,
into whirlpool of darkness,
will you meet me there?
The Poet of Kashmir
Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.
this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.
The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.
We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed.
In winter,
when it rains saffron
instead of snow.
Interconnected Dreams
Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.
Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.
coalesced dreams, some call them,
living without an end or beginning.
in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon.
Effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.
Does the Time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in these interconnected dreams
an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless Twin Sisters smile.
I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together
Northern Lights
Come here,
Sit next to me,
Don’t leave me tonight.
Watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise colored sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds
through mellow howlings.
This cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
Come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow.
Let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.
Don’t leave me tonight,
Come here,
Sit next to me.
An Artist Escapes
He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals
mostly bread and wine.
Night and Day,
are melancholic mirrors.
he keeps trespassing between them
ignoring the sense of time
creating a vortex of imaginary visions.
Countless Albino Butterflies,
bathe in his color palette.
color-soaked wings
now seek the blank canvas,
the kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for the art to strive
and the artist to escape,
the meddling reality
Writings to Heaven 