Sunday, January 1, 2017




Caught in geometrics:
Points of beauty spots,
Lines, curves, angles,
Rising and falling
In an enigmatic undulation
With graceful fluidity,
I forgot that your embrace
Would abandon me
In circles of memories,
With me at the center,
Pierced by the compass point
Of parting and caught
Disenchanted in charcoal dark,
Concentrics of despair,
Depression, alienation,
Existential ennui,
Trudging down the road of life;
Like a hurt eventide
Gauzed with mist, smog,
Red patched, mercurochromed cirrus;
Limping beyond the horizon,
Into an uncharted woodland
Of indomitable darkness.


The pink-lipped sky stoops
To kiss the silver-bodied eucalyptus,
The pale sun slowly sinks
At the darkening sight of betrayal.
And I?
What have I to say?
What have I to regret?
Oh rose you were meant
To lend fragrance to my life,
How did you get into
Another’s button-hole?


A dream slipped out
Of the hands of the dying night,
Falling to pieces
On the floor of dawn
Glistening with the first rays
Of the budding sun;
No splinter, yet pierced,
No wound, yet hurt,
A bruised self
Bled, anemic yellow;
Following the eyes
And heart-rending shrieks
Of the restless sparrow,
I saw slopped on the floor:
A yolk-stained foetus,
Injured by its fractured shell;
Without the next birthday
A stifled existence,
Dumped in the dust-bin
Of social scoff,
In tearless bereavement
With a gnawing guilt.


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