Back To Where We Left

Does it ever seem like
we ever left each other?
sometimes we talk
and the scent of your skin that prematurely limped away beckons memories - only the sweetest of them the lingering feeling of loneliness knocks and ushers itself in makes itself at home and berates me for the way things turned I try to tell it I am not fault But it answers 'but I made you cry.'

The Songs

At some point, 

life seemed to be overwhelmed by everything 

drab and lifeless, 

every single juice had been squeezed out of it 

no drug would cure it 

the days lasted a lifetime 

the songs that were a lifeline 

took off for the hills 

there was nothing 

earth became empty and desolate 

as though waiting for god to breathe life into it 

it wasn't so. 

It is still drab, desolate and barren 

but the songs are nice again. 

Once

once everything seems to be still, 

and the world as calm as a sleeping baby, 

you will be assailed by long dreamless

nights, and days 

there are no storms

may be because you learned to swim 

but then the storms are always never far off 

but for once, you tell yourself 

once, everything seems still 

it may not last 

but you take solace in the fact that 

you lived every second of it. 

Wanton Sighs

Phew! 

That was close, 

sigh!

why would you want to get high 

even?

because, even Stephen

the martyr

sighed and bowed out earth 

and lived to tell the tale 

thousands of generations later   

The Sun is Welcome Today

 the sun has risen today, 

its warmth and light penetrates 

the curtails, 

its welcome on this part of the world, 

it could be a good day, 

there is hope, though a glimmer of it 

when there is a glimmer, 

it is as good as any other day 

today sorrow takes a break 

today's dawn heralds new beginnings 

short-lived they may be, 

but it will be worthwhile 

The Wingless Bird

atop, the vistas are no longer 

breathtaking, 

there is no allure in trying to perch 

on the highest points 

instead, I'll clip my wings 

and forage on the ground 

for worms, 

then, I hope I might be the early bird 

for when the rest swoop down from 

their intricate nests 

I shall have had my fill 

And, being wingless, I shall have my thrill 

Aromas of Solitude

the beckoning aromas of solitude 

invites the senses as best as it should 

for a man dangling on the life's precipice 

and every situation is met by resigned sighs 

the stale stench of intimacy 

awakens moments that were once rosy 

and the picture of it looms 

despicably hallowed - a dictator's portrait in a room 

because everything has been said and done 

there is nothing more except be a man 

journey across various life's spectra 

stripped of any mystery or aura