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Not a roaring thunder neither a hailing frost It's a March awakening with sunshine of joy While each sound insists to be that friend whose path yet not crossed With mine; winding leaves,survived seedlings. Distracted my thoughts those were meant To produce a fruitful verse sitting alone
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In the joyous and blissful state of mind, Where soul has not lost its luster, The unbecoming of self Is but a truthful obedience- The righteous path of inner being Is laid down, for the mind to conquer. Yet conquest here is not of stillness , But filled with rigours of
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They sing songs of my freedom, So I spread my wings, and soar across the sky. Feathers brush plump cloud, Withdrawing and revealing the golden halo, That is the king of the sky. He rises to greet his loyal subjects, sky, cloud, and me. The song of the heartbeat. Peace
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One of us will leave first; I pray it is I. Prepare the coffin and lay me to rest. Look upon my face one final time. Cast the sand we gathered by the sea, and let fall a single tear for all the years I will not see.
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Two souls walked in tandem, Unmistakably synchronized. The roads crumbled into a playground. The walk through elation To critical observers, They felt it suggested a mystical chemistry. The hoping, the playfulness, the exhilaration of intimacy, Manifested a giant spectacle. We drew up a conversation. Outwardly expansive and soulful. The conversation
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Sitting Steadily Quietly Wondering Viciously Restlessly do I know this feeling have we met before do i call it by its name do I know its name? is it the loneliness that creeps quietly in me, and hangs its long, dark coat on my heart pulling it down making it
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The afternoon sun was harsher than usual today its fierce warmth pricking my tender skin, burning quietly through the surface of my body. One could not expect anything more of Bhopal, after all, a city in which the sun always appears determined to burn the flesh to ashes? I was
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I was listening to Yellow by Coldplay when I started thinking about the colour itself. Blue used to be my favourite when I was a child. Then it was green as I grew older. For the past six or seven years, though, it’s been yellow. I can’t help
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Because sometimes silence speaks louder than words. There’s a difference between hearing and listening. Hearing is easy it’s just sound entering your ears. But listening? That’s presence. That’s slowing down enough to catch not just the words, but the pauses, the hesitations, the things left unsaid.
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Misery masked itself as pleasure, Darkness portrayed itself as art. Or so I believed, naive, unaware — Your words pierced straight through my heart, Time drenched in the agony left behind. The lips that praised me, no longer did — Instead they whispered false pretence. The hands that welcomed me, no longer
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I hide away from you like a shadow that thrives on its own. I watched you spiraled into a void with no return — Still, I beg time to free me from this misery. Who are you, I wonder — What has become of you? Your eyes no longer glisten with the
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Sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t standing tall. It’s allowing yourself to crumble — softly, completely — in front of someone who doesn’t ask you to be strong. For years, I wore my resilience like armor. People said, “You’re so strong.” And every time they said it, a small