In The Grips Of Fate

Gripped in the divine

fingers of fate

the heart moves

with every twist

and the beliefs

residing in it are

often intermingled.

After each a little

shake, I sit to segregate

the jumble of thoughts,

puzzled to recognize

one from the other.

Just when the arrangement

is completed, here comes

another swirl.

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An encounter

Last night I saw a full moon

embellished in the jewelery of gold,

upfront in a backdrop; black,

as it poured its beams

which it deemed right

to negate the dark.

Intent on hiding the truth

an evil cloud threw a curtain

of gloom over the face of the moon.

It wasn’t yet doom

as I could see some resolute

silvery patches resurfacing

the murky scene

every now and then,

before burying deep by the

vastly obscure skies.

The clouds laughed a malicious thunder,

while someone shed tears of sympathy.

The State Of Poemlessness

Like a poison rushing
through the veins,
positioning the brain
to cut off the links of life,
this state of poemlessness
intruded my mind,
and blocked the passage
of thoughts into pen.

The pen is waiting while
the hem of the paper is spread
begging for words, increasing
my desperation for intoxication.

The heart needs to intervene
to clear the scene in the brain
for the freedom of pen
and paper from a death of hunger.

A dual challenge!

The honest toilers; our ancestors,
collected the stones thrown at them,
and the mud slung at them, to build a house.
They mixed the ingredients with their
sweat and their blood; the color of love
To make it a home.

A few seeds of mistrust evolved into trees of
contempt in the hearts of the second generation.
And with the help of neighbors
they themselves erected a wall of separation.

The nameplate of my home which used to
read, ‘unity’ is rusted and withered since long.
Suspicion crept into our yard and settled
in every corner of the square as if
measuring a division.

I can hear the footsteps of aliens fast
approaching our home, and I’m faced
with a dual challenge; of repairing the
storm lashed doors and of wiping all
the germs of contempt.

I’ll keep the forces of ‘division’ at bay
‘Its a negative process’ said a mathematician.

Story Of A Cloud

And then a gloomy cloud
halted and dissolved
into an ocean of tears.

Relieved after throwing
its fears, it flew with
the wings of merry birds
holding avenues of bliss
in their sights.

Roaming the skies
it was oblivious to
the sighs of unresting
waters below.

Enhaling air, its
chest turned heavy
with melancholy,
and it could think about
none, but pouring it again.

The cloud is a merchant,
trading pain with pain.