The death of love

There is nothing called love.
Or rather there is a mechanism
termed love.
And what a god-forsaken phenomenon it is!

It lures you like an aphrodite,
A jungle nymph
Every single time.
It doesn't matter how old
or jaded you are,
You still glimpse the nymph.

It invades your spaces,
Seeps into your brain through your ears,
Spreads into your veins,
takes control and finally owns you.
And the best part?
It deserts you almost as suddenly
as it came.

The death of love it is,
When love dies and kills you with it.

The suicide bomber could be a lover,
The terrorist, the murderer,
could be a lover.

Oh the death of love!
It burns your insides
If this world is a purgatory,
then love is its most ingenious device.

The death of passion

When a passion dies its all
blood and gore and guts.

We are alive after all,
living and breathing,
thinking and dreaming...

We come from dust,
Breathe it in till our last day
and end up in it.

Banished souls we,
Did God ever will
to take us back?

Maybe that was the initial idea
at inception.
But as we took to this dust,
as we meshed into this
blood and guts,
Could He have left us to it?

What are we without our passions.
I am faceless,
My passion makes me.
It pulsates in my veins
and moves me.

I am dead without it.
An empty shell in its absence.
Surely that was not His idea.
Why would He imbue us with passions
Only to make us vow to give up on them.

This is a purgatory;
Possibly,
Truth or hyperactive fanaticism,
we would never know.

But why should I be afraid of it
if I was destined to be here.
A purgatory entered in self consciousness
would be akin to a rehab.

The religious will agree to this.
Because for them we are born sinners.
And to them love
in its regenerative form,
is a depravity.

If God is within,
How are we sinners without?
Maybe Adam and Eve shouldn't have sinned,
But that is all myth.

What is the truth about creation...
Is there a God?
I see my life,
I grieve the death of my passions,
I can touch the dust on my lips
and the tears on my cheeks.
I can touch my child
I can treasure my father
but I can't see God.

How am I to walk the paths
that lead to Him,
If I can't feel Him within.

Maybe the earth is more ethereal
than we realise.
But killing my living breathing passion
for a faraway chance of a glimpse
of ether,
would be like Abraham killing Issac.

My passion was born from me.
It took form from the dust
of my body.
Its death causes me grief.
Saps into my livingness,
makes me empty.

I witness it helplessly.
All the blood and gore couldn't
stand up to a bit of ether.

On being possessed

A night of possession.
His eyes on mine,
his fingers touching
my throat.

Tiny feathered impulses,
gather in the pit of my belly.
I see an umbilical
pulsating in between.

I think
I imprinted on him. 

Those eyes

Last February,
On my trip to the hills,
I saw a little girl
in a shack down the road.

Her scrunched up face
had soot on it.
But, it was her eyes
that shone.

Part vacant innocence
part idle probing,
they looked through me,
Saw my rough hewn soul.

Her father was the tea man,
and she, his ungainly hostess.
Though the road swivelled by,
the shack stood still;
Against time,
against the purple sky.

As we drove away
Through the glutinous mist,
It was her eyes that shone.

Words etc.

I wish I could write.
Squeeze out some word drops
Of late I've been feeling clogged.
Cardboardish.

I blame;
things, people, and at times
myself...I just barely know,
How to get out of it.

I know, I know,
But I cannot grasp it.
Because I am distracted.

Franz says,
that which distracts is evil.
What would that be
in this case?

Poverty..heartbreak..
the Great Expectations?

When would I clearly see
what I want.
And be brave enough
to go for it.

I like writing.
Words on paper are beautiful...

What is love?

A fevered glance, heart beats cascading and bumping into one another, a domino effect. The mere air, if shared by the object assumes the weight of a heavy wet coat. Temperature rises - pressure falls, words roll over in your mouth, stubbornly resisting comprehendable form. An ever growing cloud of illusion or a gut-wrenching sleepless night of jealousies-acid at the tip of the tongue from heart burn: a raging storm in a moment, a grovelling beggar in another. The perpetrator and the hunted at once.

Mind-play

To be or not to be;
Stay and get ravaged?
Or should he flee.

The beckonings of a moonlit mirage,
or the silence of a decaying city.
Which should he pay heed to?

Never, never do the doors open.
Not once can he tell apart,
Fair truth from raven illusion.

The alleys of the mind,
are the homes of them,
juggernauts and acrobats.

He is condemned to ceaseless play.
Suspended forever in the mind's trapeze,
Cant escape try as he may.

Words and us (Part II)

So here we are.
you and me;
finally.

Through the woods
and the spiraling roads,
and the cliffs
through the crevasses.

While I was at sea
fighting the choppy waters,
were you near by any chance?
waiting for me around the corner...

Empty romanticism u smirk
true i agree
because you were at sea yourself.