Ring of Fire


And we were tired–of running in circles and falling down the same rabbit hole over and over again. The tepid blue and those flickering city lights in a never ending loop were never meant to be taken seriously because they only instilled nostalgia–one which we erased a long time ago. And yet we both sit here–looking at empty screens which scream to us with so much emotion which translates to silence.

In all the trust–or the lack of it–all we do is run around, faltering words–which are just words. They mean so much and yet they mean nothing. One can change water into wine–and then stare at it because we never wanted wine. We just wanted to do a magic trick. That is how things happen–how we sell ourselves for a dream which reeks of a stale death.

That is how it is—we sell ourselves, until no one can afford us. Until we run out of ourselves.

That is when we realize–there are no longer any butterflies. They all went away because butterflies do not come on rotten flowers. How quickly did they move on–they do not stay and linger.

And under the water–we thought we would breathe. We thought we could! And thus, we dived and splashed but when it was time to dive deep–that is when we drowned. And to come up to surface, that is the real art. But who is kidding who!

And the lilies all wilt–because they were meant to. So do we–because we are meant to. And in our broken down walls–we live and linger on. Never letting anyone in–the ones outside can see everything–yet we never let them in and we do not know the reason as to why.

And the skyline–it left its ugly marks which were beautiful and we must stop now–before the skyline takes us. But I see how you recoil–as if you are stuck in a nightmare which makes you suffocate–as if you are caught and trapped. But it’s just a dream, it will be over and soon you will be free.

And I will be here–fighting for finality.

And we were tired, we are tired. Of running in circles which were perhaps never meant for us. Perhaps they never will. And the blue, everlasting commotion with flickering city lights—will be there. It will be only thing here. It always will be–it always was. We are tired, because we were charged. And that is what it is.

Faqeer, Beggar


Beneath the statue of the Old Beggar with a hundred lines sculpted on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be created,
I–who had written all the stories
Of the fires which had burned the town hall
Where the dancers would do the silent Waltz
And of the blind man–who saw everything and heard nothing
Of the women–who sang in chorus, of love which was not meant for them
Of children, who stopped playing because of the scars
Of the sculpted swan, with its ugly broken wing
I sat there like art, waiting to be drawn
I–who had heard the choir boys singing
While the Woman in the green dress had repressed a smile
And left the room–for she was torn
Because she had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go
And she slept in the dingy streets with torment under her sleeves
But I sat there like art–waiting to be designed
For once, long ago–I had lost my way in the ruined valleys-
With empty houses and unbothered streets
So beneath the statue on the Old Beggar with a hundred lines-
And an expression of solitude frozen on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be composed
For I knew all the stories, because I had written them all
Of you and me, and me and you
And I sat there like art–because
I knew of all the endings, right from the very start



This life is nothing more than an intrepid betrayal. And this betrayal begins from the womb–wherein you are comfortable in it when one day life gets to perform its first act of betrayal by ejecting you outside into a strange dexterous void–the world. In this world, you start getting used to the pungent sun and make it your friend since you are afraid of the coarse darkness–and suddenly with one jerk, the sun goes down, betrays you and the dismal night stands in contrast. So you make friends with the millions of ghosts up in the sky–until they too disappear from your sight when you wake up. Illusions. And then you get used to the winds–the light and cold company and you are one with them –when there is betrayal in the form of heavy rain. Then you go on to make memories. And you make so many of them, when with the crack of age–one by one the memories seep out through you, thereby betraying you. And of course, the people—you meet them with a mask, or perhaps many. And you see they are wearing a mask as well–or perhaps many. But you swing past that, knowing quite well what face exists beneath them. Yet when the masks come off–you feel betrayed, perhaps by your own selves first and then the faces you see for they quite resemble yours. And that is–the betrayal of the self and of the mind. You are betrayed by your virtues because of your vices, your sins by your tragedies or perhaps it is the other way around, your senses by your delusions and your feelings by your reality…¬† So then you realize, what is life about and you finally get the hang of it. Alas! You are met with betrayal in the form of death.

And death…is a betrayal of sorts in its own self as well.



Dusk dispatched messages for those who liked to linger in the wild calamitous shores of the Night every time it reached a transition point. And though there were only few–they never opened those messages. For they knew already what Dusk would have to say, they feared what Dusk had to say–and they were tormented.

Sometimes they stayed back and did not cross over to the night. They became ghosts. Sometimes they climbed the broken walls and would glance at the Night. They could not decipher its mysteries and its depth. But neither could Night decipher their longing for the Dusk. So sometimes they would hang back and stay over, within the Dusk–the silent stillness which marred it with its pink, orange and lavender skies and the dead clouds which were as formless as ever. It was then that they would become free.

Dusk would leave messages for those who liked to stay back. But they would not open or read¬† them–they felt betrayed. How could they not! For they could stare at the Dusk for hours and become immersed within it, becoming one with its slits, with its dismal glory, with its sorrow, its longing and its clouds which were as formless as ever–and Dusk would not stare back.

For it was Dusk–the cross over, the transition, the orifice of the day and night–it could not stay forever. For it was an episode in the grand theater–and it wasn’t final and it wasn’t anything. For it could not linger on around the empty shores of the people and it could not stare at the hollow, slowly turning pages of them–it could not stay back and listen to the silent music of their souls. Dusk was not free. Dusk was not a ghost.

And so–it would dispatch letters and messages which no one would read. And one time during a moment of transition–a passing wind blew one of the messages towards the Man who would stay back every time–staring at the immensity of the coming night, shuddering–with his eyes fixated towards the Sky which was asking questions he did not have the answers to. And the spell was broken momentarily, and he glanced at the letter and a lament of pain escaped him. And that was the last he was seen–on the shores, for he crept silently into the dark abyss of Night, never to be seen again–leaving the Sky broken and alone–as it suddenly took the shape of a question never to change back into the blue vastness.

Two Weary Travelers


Two weary travelers, set out on a course
Through the damaged roads
And over the dried out sea
Through a vindictive sky
And over the ashy mountains
Two weary travelers…
One was red and the other, green
One wept in euphoria
The other laughed in dread
One had a silent bird sitting on top of their head
The other carried a stick made of lead
One told stories of wars on the moon
The other sang songs about heaven’s gloom
One wore their beating heart on their sleeve
The other displayed their dying soul on their ragged fleece
And on they went, to far off lands
Where no one was awake
And they would ring the bells and leave a trail
Where ever they rode
And on the sunlit tops of hills
There were whispering shadows
Which told of tales of happiness and only
Sadness followed
And one fine day the crows were dancing
When one of the travelers sat down
On a cold bench to never get up
And sat there looking at the sun set
And when the sun was drowned in the dark
The weary traveler had passed
Into the gory light
Now on the train that goes nowhere
One weary traveler sits
Alone with their mind hoping like a bird
Without any feathers
The traveler has now a box which contains a dead heart
Which they wear it on their sleeve to see if it ever would beat
And time will stop moving it’s hands
But the heart will never beat
And one weary traveler sits on the wing of a plane
And flies to the sun as it sets

A Fable; Part One–The Flower


From the shadows of the empty bed
And fires of the lonely nights
When the moon stood forlorn
Was born a Grey Rose
On the dusty and barren land
Which told tales not of love or lust
Nor of glee and freedom
Nor of togetherness
Nor did it speak of evil
Nor of sadness
Or for that matter–
morbid fabricated tales
Of love lost and death
It was a tale of a scavenger
A yearning
A longing and waiting
It was a reprise–
Of stagnated sheltered dreams

Orange Canary


There was a grey fire here last night
It burnt the roof of the city down
The orange canary sang in wilderness
The red dog wept in sadness
The purple cat hid in dismay
The people stared at the sea
That was an escape and this was the dream
The trees were ash and the house on the hill…
Turned rust
And the golden canary sang in its nest
They looked for me and I tried to hide
This was the story and it was a test
The whole city was burnt and there was smoke
People looked at the sky
For it was far and that was the cry

Bird in my Head


I sit in a dark room thinking about darkness
I have a glass of blood in my hands
And a bird flies quietly in my head
I do not know why
I will sit here. For hours to come. And minutes and seconds
Thinking about darkness
All the light that I lost
And I cannot look around me
There is a bear which plays the flute
And I do not understand why
There is darkness around me
And I am the light.
And soon I’ll burn myself out
As I burnt my candle turning it into the wildfires
The ghosts play the piano
And I can not dance
But I do not know why
I can hear laughter and people talking
But it must be all in my head
Yet I do not know why


It’s like the days are not even days any more.
Night isn’t night anymore.
I am not even who I was anymore.
The sky has turned into ash, it isn’t blue anymore
The moon is a black dot, it isn’t the moon anymore
The sea has turned into soot, it isn’t it anymore
The tree upon which I gazed outside
It is not standing there anymore…perhaps it travelled north or towards a dusty gloom
I don’t know anymore
There is so much dark now, I don’t want the light anymore
I loved someone once
I don’t love anymore