Mirror

Under the shadow
Of a page unturned,
Lost in the folds of dried tears,
Retreating into the years bygone,
Those lonely, wilting shivers,
Like a long winter's frost.

Reflecting in circles,
Flaws upon the muddy crevices,
Of an old mirroring lakeside.
Sometimes the shifting clouds
Speak to the coy night star,
Whispers of a thousand unlit dreams.

Space

Like the soft corners

Of a threadbare wooly blanket,

Amidst the seething, dark clouds

Filled with last night's lost downpour,

She came like the ocean's salty wind,

Tossed around like a withered autumn leaf.

So like the first speckles of an orange dawn,

The dazzled eye now sets the scene in motion.

Tenderly promised stories,

Blurring into one another.


After the engulfing darkness,

And before the blinding light,

Beyond the tantalizing schism of silences,

Between the two temporalities,

Lies the eternal brink of nothingness.

That edifying moment outside of all time,

Where there is both existence and non-being,

That is neither fully here nor there,

Knotted fire,

Consuming the inside from the out.

Subsistence

So in the end, you were reduced to a framed photo in the hall.
Time took your soft hand in his, and led you away.
An aching vacuum was all that was left.
That, and an irreplaceable absence on your side of the bed.

I open my eyes in the morning,
Your untouched glasses stare back at me from the bedside table.
I walk into the kitchen, and put the water to boil.
Your empty tea cup stares back at me.

As I step into the bathroom,
Your bristly old toothbrush sits beside mine.
Comforting, standing tall and stoic as always.
I gave you a hard time for not replacing them with new ones. I wonder why.

The batteries of the remote need replacing.
Sometimes it's the omnipresence of your absence,
And at others, it's a loose thread from your shirt on the sofa.
Little things that remind me of you.

They say it's time I cleared your wardrobe.
But even if I dust the very last stray thread off the sofa,
What about the consuming blanket of countless memories
That you've woven around my very being?

Even now, if I listen closely,
I can still hear your chappals echo down the verandah.
As you go to pick up the morning paper.
But today, I cannot hear the news headlines read out in your voice.

A modernist tribute

so much depends
upon

that one rainy
morning

when those white
chickens

came knocking at
my door.

Recipe for a Delicious Disaster

I know this is crazy.
But it is what's keeping me going
In this sporadic blizzard of empty, throbbing aches.
This dose of moronic insanity.

So here's the goddamn recipe.
A pinch of resolve, a dollop of hope, desire to taste.
And yes, while at it, shove that ego down the drain.
Also, this is when you toss in a bowl of belief into the batter.

Now a dash of courage sprinklings,
And a final garnish of spontaneity, to top it all.
Et Voilà! There's your incredible adventure. Let go.
So now you know why it's called a leap of faith.

Ontology of Absurdity

And the most puerile of them all,
The futility of unrequited longing.
It is nothing but a self-destructive journey,
An irresistible exile into the pits of self-imposed torture.

But what path exists without its share of thorns.
What compassion would there be without suffering.
It is only those that have tasted the harsh buds of misfortune
That can cherish happiness in all its blooming transience.

And so, the burning urge to chase after it,
Despite this doomed awareness of short-lived joy, if at all.
But how meaningless this circle of life would otherwise be.
If not for such moments of utter stupidity and passion.

Pipe Dream

The first time
Was just around this corner.
Yes, right here.
Beneath these clouds, a faceless presence.

Your shadow swept upon me
As you walked past, oblivious.
Bathed me in sensations.
And then you were gone before it even started.

In that single instant,
All light was darkness,
In all manner of meaning and being.
Nothing but flesh, blood, and touch.

An obscure journey through fleeting infinity.
Wilderness, dew, moist grass. You.
The smoke diffuses into your absence. Afterwards,
I wept.