Black magic of black eyes
piercing through the skin
reclined on a gorgeous chaise
to death ... to the death.

Spare me in this ephemeral moment
thunders lightening the dark borders
of the empty room
as drops of rain trinkles down.

Rushing each morning for that little extra ... getting into an enemy's toil is easier than out again, but it seems to be a picayune infraction in the modern everyday world ... or I wonder ..

Patterns of light on the walls by the banks of the river; mirrored from the undulating water. The heavy rainfall the night before merely exacerbated the flood through emotional tides.

I wish to recompense you for the time you spent lying by me on the bed undone ...

It stood encamped on the slight rise of the lined eye lashes.

"I don't trust you any more", you said it loudly. Only if you had known me a bit longer, I would have proved you otherwise.

Faded tones of early morning clouds with a hint of cold wind stands testimonial to all those transitory passions, delusional affections and ephemeral remnants of transparent love…. Everything else passes by

time and pace ... a bit more, a bit slow ....

Through the unrest of yesteryears you stood silently over the inoffensive radio conversation, looking out to the silent dell across the wooden frame of a misplaced window; chewing inorganic thoughts of unaccounted wisdom and lackadaisical trust.

Gun down the mild mannered stars looking down from its azure abode where innocence is cheaply available and shared at a princely sum. Trusting them would be fatal. Answers will be at a premium for those who would not be coming back from the milky terrain of un-dwelled universe. Of course questions will be forgotten after three nights of hotbed curfew on roads.

The shadow on that wall is yours. It doesn’t have your physical vigour but I can read that pristine mind; The clearness of vision, the strength of understanding, the precision of thought.

Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I am mindful of what had transpired between us last night. I can still sense your leap from the corner of our room. The rest as they say is history, buried peacefully in my recesses.

You called me a lousy dreamer. That we all are. We all are weaving magical dreams. Its just that the fabric is different and the art copyrighted.

He kept walking promising himself at each step, the state of emotions that he desired. But then discontentment is addictive … one despises it .. grows tired of its capers but some where deep down loves its quarrelsome nature like a man in love with a termagant.

Discontentment is deep rooted in desires. “Desires … Bah!”, he thought. And he kept walking further and further towards the prairie. The beauty bogged him down. The landscape humbled him and he wondered, how could all that was troubling him could have troubled him so much. Inconsequential. And he lighted another pack ….