illusion

I drown every day.

In the roar of vehicles,
Which zip by me.
In the murmur of people,
Who walk past me.

I drown every day.
In the power of speech.
In the magic of words.

Yes, I do drown
In its beauty, in its grace.
Amazed with its mysticism,
Awed with the hypocrisy.

Yes, I do drown in this illusion.

Are you listening?

People talk

On subways,

On bridges.

In houses,

On cell phones.

In offices and

On buses.

Everywhere I go,

I see people talk.

Everyone I see,

Is talking.

But…

Is anyone listening?

Do we just hear?

Or do we listen?

Do we really want to hear?

Or are we faking that too?

Yesterday night she called me up.

I picked up the phone

And listened.

She didn’t speak a single word,

But I heard it all.

Is it silence that we are looking for?

Some form of solitude in the cacophony of strangers?

Is it really possible to listen?

journey

imposing surroundings

made translucent

by the stoic darkness

in amazement, I watch

images being created

by the crisscross of shadows

the flickering of lights

merging in rhythm

in harmony

oblivious to the asymmetry

satisfying

even though weird

but I continue in my journey

till the time I wake up.

When push comes to shove

One of these cold nights

When darkness thrived

I made a tryst; a rendezvous with Vesper

An oval ball of light.

White, Serene, a symbol of tranquillity.

They call it the moon;

While lullabying others to sleep –

Myself to a pensive mood.

Why is it being so sarcastic?

Flashing that idiotic grin,

As if laughing at my loneliness.

Everywhere I look, everybody I see.

Is in a state of bliss.

In flights of fantasy, in search of peace.

I envy them, hate them, loathe them, resent them.

My quest for peace, my flights of fantasy,

Has brought me Hell.

Which I mistook for Heaven.

I pick up the syringe but the vial’s empty.

So are the crumpled tablet foils adorning the floor,

With the only furniture – empty bottles, wrappers and old journals.

My flight just ended.

I wonder, I speculate.

In distaste, I picked up my knife.

Ivory crafted, Sharp, Beautiful, Exquisite.

A piece of art, indeed.

Useful to cut Marijuana.

And my Veins.

In the horizon, I see the rising sun.

An opaque ball of fire.

Illuminating the dark and dreary.

A source of energy for them.

But dreadful for me.

‘Cos the tepid yellowness is brighter!

Brighter than the reddishness of my veins.