Saviour

My love for him is tendentious.

No doubt ; he is a great teacher

Or orator rather;

As ascertained by the millions

Who trail like ants

Or swarm around him

To listen to his words.

For a prophetic voice

And puissant grace

Are a combination that adds

A plethora of charm

To a particular demeanour.

Is he my hero?

Should I quickly

Make up my mind ?

Society has carved a niche,

Wherein lies inscribed           

Golden norms for believers.

For any mortal who trespass

The waters of divine faith;

Oh! The Heavens forbid.

MIRAGE

When my eyes met yours

You did belong to me.

Did I hear your voice

Or was it an echo from my heart?

When I clashed,

Was ego my sword and shield?

Now that the fury of the storm has drowned,

I really want to sing once more;

But the melody I seek is gone,

And so the harmony and concord

Lost to the wind and forgot

Just like a mirage.

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.