Saturday, May 1, 2021







Rings have a way with fingers.

On the slender structures with

the face-like nails for long,

as if in a tight embrace amorously,

they sink in deeper with time.


 Not letting the pores breathe,

sometimes they hurt, reminding you

each moment of their clutching presence.

When you have struggled to be free of it,

you will see the indelible mark it has left


on the contours of your skin, how inside

the mark, the skin has paled, unfed of lights!

Sometimes they are comfortably settled,

so quiet and non-hurting, a part of you,

that you are almost forgetful of its being.


Until the day it is lost.



My Winter


I don’t ask winter if

it is his last day with me,

like I wouldn’t to a guest

whose leaving would leave

with a void corner inside me.


For my winter is kind, never

intending to hurt my bones.

For my winter playfully freezes

the water only to set it free,

imprisoning is not its way to be.


But in the springing bud as it signs

the departure column of the year’s

register, I know there is no bigger

truth than waiting for the spell of

kindness, mercies. I call him my winter.




What Do They Mean To You


How much do you

let words rule you?


You, who hang on

like a climber’s rope


on phrases, interjections,

on figures of speech,


to find cohesiveness

on what you know and


what more you wish to?

You, who wish to read


the silence in between

the words, for much is


at stake on their meanings,

like if you will be healed!


Do they help be more of you?

Promise you a cared-for sleep?



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