Thorny side up

Sometimes I say things I don't mean 
At times I mean things that I don't say
You may have realised by now
That it is difficult to get away. 

I hide smiles behind tears 
and tears behind smiles 
You might have already perceived 
These are my prominent styles. 

Without me reminding so late
You know that life is a bed 
of Roses with thorny side up
But there is nothing to dread. 

It is all temporary 
till it becomes permanent. 
It is all body
till it becomes parchment. 

To my reader across the seas

I can rain somewhere near you 
Make a point that is less distant. 
But this is not how gravity works for me
It forces me to search, with a cursory lamp 
in the narrow passes of inspiration 
Leads me across thoughtless plains
into the forests of silence where 
I hear only the sound of my breathing
Before I suddenly reach a magical place 
Called the ending, which could be this 
Or wherever you stopped reading. 

Mrs. Cinderella Prince

Now she needs kinder shoes

That comfort her like never before

She doesn't let the prince choose

But leaves a note outside her door. 

She puts her faith in the fairy elves

Waits patiently in the kingly castle 

For the shoes to walk by themselves

Without carrying a princely hassle. 

She wants shoes in which she can stay

Not the ones that'll take her away. 

In the right light

I read something that nudges me

to look outside the window

or imagine somewhere other than now.

I think about the infinity of things

and the endless horizon of possibilities.

I imagine the chains that they are all bound by.

I feel the chain of events reaching me

and wetting my feet with experience.

I am rewired at that moment.

I am put in the cross-hairs of my own thoughts.  

The muse

The muse car-pools with me

and is silent for most part of the journey.

It adjusts its gaze occasionally to see

if I am noticing how things can be.

But I am just focused on my ends and

what it all means to me and the world.

It doesn’t disappear yet, it waits

for the moment when the windows darken,

the wipers flail and everything is washed

in the rain, and I observe something

that rings bells: bells of charm and not alarm.

And the inner leaves rustle in a metaphorical breeze.  

The expanding universe

The fact that universe is expanding

has trickled down to me.

It has had no effect on my goings-on

as a normal citizen.

The car works just fine,

the apples still fall to the ground

as they did before and elsewhere.

But now there is a certain unease

when I write that you are moon-faced or

compare you to some other heavenly body.

I would like to expand too and compare you

to the universe and all its complexities.

A drunken nod to the Classics

Long after you’ve read them, the scene

is still playing slothfully before your eyes.

A clear stage and a clever dialogue subtly hint

that something is wrong with the world.

A character is shown a long, slow mirror,

long enough to observe the folds in the

clothing or even count the number of lights

in the chandelier, precariously hung above him.

The story grows a beard, turns into a cape

follows you like a heroic shadow.

You ingest everything about it

so much that you wander in Wuthering Heights.

You tend to have Great Expectations about everything

leading to Pride first and then Prejudice.

Your adventures into wonderlands

end in abandonment in a lonely island.

You go through War and Peace and at every

turn of phrase, you expect Sense and Sensibility.

You call out for help to Emma and Anna but alas!

they’ve all left, without a word, with The woman in White.

You wonder about the balance in this Crime and punishment,

let out a sigh and suffer the Trial. Despite all this, you are

still Quixotic and dream of a Brave new world.