CITY LIFE

Every corner,
Every nook
But cranny
All squares
But circles of a vicinity
Hustles,
Beeps,
and teeming footsteps
All lights on
And edifaces as long
as the eyes could assertain

Subways
highways
parked cars,
sea of pedestrians
commuters
Life’s on fire;
Ablazing with anew hopes
Venting through like an
amorous sophomore

We walk through,
with our heads up high
amid crass propaganda;
Eavesdropping our timed-pace
with reproach
But we remain in unison;
working to aviate & bridge the gap
between today & our apportioned
Destinies…

In this city life !

FORGOTTEN

I’m the smallest detail
I’m the smallest detail within a fabric,
yet unnoticed
I’m not friday evenings, or monday mornings
I’m the midday within a saturday
I’m the zeal which kindles up
when life’s not worth-living
I’m that pointed edge of a judge’s gavel,
that sounds to convict or acquit
I’m the lightest fibre within the darn
of a sock
I’m that only grey hair that stands up
with an ethnocentric demeanour
I’m the holding compartment of a toothbrush
That compartment that’s usually held
I’m the hole in the key holder
I’m that pillow case,
upon which countless dreams
and nightmares have trod
I’m that dew that usher in the dawn
or that sunrise on sundays
I’m that button around the collar
of a t-shirt that holds the tie intact
I’m that greased paper that contains
phone numbers or test pen inks
I’m the asterisk that appears when
a password is typed
I’m that corner of the house
that’s been alienated by the household
I’m either midday-breaks or the usual
coffee mug that serves breakfast
I’m the smallest detail
I’m that smallest forgotten detail

GONE WITH THE WIND

I’ll seize to start with prepositions
like the dream I had, on a deserted arena
where silence was the only rhythm that humanity bore
where the sequence of the heart’s pulse invigorate its usefulness
Gone with the wind
like the senses of a three-year-old child
toiling with the math of abacus
or like the soothsayer who talks in proverbs, in sentences of two or three
I’ll seize to start with prepositions
to avoid the predictions of the standbyers ,
who, in piety looks, remain uninterrupted
like the anthem I once heard,
just before my sweet sixteen
which resonates more often than usual
I’ll seize to start with prepositions
to alienate plots of mercenaries
And in moments like these
I may go wind the wind

A NICHE AT A TIME

In this glory
Where we carve out visions
As templates for the impending days
Where an eternal rest is assured
after a tiring night’s strife
Let’s dare to dream
The feasible theories
As totems for the impending nights
Where symbolism wonders to represent above reproach
If not to all and sundry
At least to the average man
And at most, to the academia
As every niche strikes in a venom
That’s known to the realms
For as we grow older,
we’ll narrow our imaginations
and learn to observe rubrics
With a third conscience and a second intuition