Come, hang yourself

That is what you are
and that is what you will be
a fly stuck in jaggery
in a cloying bondage.

Once in a while you metamorphose
into a free bird with a will to fly
but you go a distance and are brought
down by an innocent shooter.

You are that fly again and start over.

when will you give up trying?
We are all waiting here
deep in the gluey gloom
Come on. Come over.
Freedom is an illusion even in the open sky
with its endless traps.
Come, hang yourself to this pivot
and let the breeze vacillate you between infinities.

Missing

The cupboard smells of naphthalene
In the corner there are letters
"Open with a smile", written on their lips.
The windows are open like a dead man's eyes
and the sunlight slants forming a shadowy mesh
crawling to the opposite wall.

He abandoned the world for good.
He was never happy with the things.
Look, he forgot his glasses
He might be gone forever.
Must have walked himself into an accident.
What do we do now.
The fridge must have something to eat.

Paper clown

I will think of funny things
and write them down.
On paper, I will be
just like that clown

Instead of a splotchy attire
there would be naked words
Just the things needed
for a cloaking imagination.

I will look out of the window
and create something that's hard to chew
It might turn out that the only person laughing
would be me and me alone.
But don't look away
steady your gaze
because I ought to be funny.
There is no other way, the quivering
would escape my vocal chords.
Other than this.
Other than bliss.

Free verse

Long long ago and so long ago
there was something called rhyme
It did something.
I mean, it had to.
It was there for a purpose.
I forget its use now. But let us
just remember: it existed once.

Now it's Free verse
A balancing act under the gravity of its essence
that pulls it into a pile, around a
single line midway through the piece.
Carefully weighed punctuation and
well crafted words are needed
to maintain that fine balance.

Evenings

I can't say I remember you all the time
but, some days when as a dried leaf
I traverse those roads
I think of you.
And as the breeze unfurls the evening
I remember your hair
flying into my face.

Visions

What use are the visions of a dying man
even if they are about a happy place?
In the silence between sobs
he mumbles with excitement
and the sobs rise in pitch
drowning his faint voice.

Buzz

The buzz around bread and butter keeps me away
from the poetry in life.
Lately I realize that poetry is
for sleepy afternoons and dimly lit evenings.
The blazing mornings need something else.
Something un-poetic.