Trust

Our friendship, my friend,
Is a faithful relationshi.
The sceptics may ponder
To their hearts content
On how long it would last
For they for certain know
Their own breathing span
And meanwhile an only
Amusement,
A sift in a string;
A string of cordiality,
Knitted in mutual trust;
For one stitched can loosen
To spoil the gross.
But the string
Wrought on rock
Is tiny, yet firm
Which no vile can winnow.

A name is a name

There must be something in a name!
Even after wedlock by the altar,
I chose not to alter my nomenclature
Lest I metamorphose into something
I'd rather not want to be.
If you call me by a different name
It might end me confused;
It is not exactly the 'identity crisis'
Sort of thing that I dread,
But I guess I'd miss being 'me'

Each name carries with it a story
Enacting subtle shades of
Meaning, feeling and colour
Which flower bird or beast
Will like to be called a name
Varied from the original?
Won't it be ridiculous
To call the lion, a sheep
Or the mosquito, an ant?

No jasmine will smell that sweet
If it be called another name
Call the rose, a hemlock,
And witness it wilt its fragrance
And hue to simulate poisonous.
The moth might treat more make-up
To face lift into a butterfly.
The nightingale might cease its melody
Oranges would start tasting like grapes.
Feathers and petals in anarchy;
Lets call for a truce!
Don't we secretly love our nuances?
So does a name reveal a world
Unique to suit the owner's niche.
So why put a pseudonym
To reflect my style
If I'd rather be myself
Than anyone else!

Resuscitation

It feels so good to write again.
After a dirge of an year or so
I seek my lost treasure;
Riding on the reins of  fancy,
My soft fingures
Grip my golden weapon;
Like a horse harnessed
I assume the sovereign
To reign my kingdom
Or does it lead me
A cart at the horse's mercy?
I guess any amateur
Would have felt similiar
When his eyes feasted on
Some creative stone
Found by chance
Along the way.
It feels queer to strongly bond
With some trivial again
And it dawned on me
That the urge to write
Was an unfading flower
Of charm and grace
Lending me breath,
Resurrecting my thoughts,
Painting my world,
Polisihing my new found stone
To a gem of my choice

Broken pieces of glass

When thoughts pour hot

Stir them well

Before they hurt

Your lips.

Jot down the familiar

Wrapped in doubt,

Or conceal a smile

To go straight to it.

The laughter of the unknown

May deliriously haunt

And the only rule is

To mask what you are,

To let no one know;

And you’d end up

With something like

Broken pieces of glass.

The voice says it all

My voice always

Drowns in a crowd.

Not that I’m the

Screaming type.

But aren’t there times

When one would like

To speak aloud,

Or think aloud rather;

And some idiot

Would silence me

As they did to ‘her’

This voice is never

An expression of the self;

Just an inner fancy

Wanting to show off for long.

And the mould itself

But a casual spectator.

Automation

Girls don’t survive

Without a shed of tear,

One for love,

And the other

For fear

A life – giving dew

They hold on to;

Embalming and free.

But now she has

Bottled tear-drops

To burst her heart;

And there comes

An automatic arm,

Only to feel the

Smoothness of her hair.

Look straight

Since there is none

To hold her back

Here she goes

Out into the world

To build a future

Of her own

Why must she care

Whether her heart

Is pending/

She has willed her destiny

And shall not sever

From the path she chose

When there is

None to cling on to,

Its best to be a

Butterfly

And find one’s own flower

Why bother

Whether you live

But a day or two!