Void

People are comforted when they look at the night skies.
Sailors and navigators depend on what they see,
the light that emanates from the darkness.
People find solace in the orbs of light,
in the golden beads that shatter the black hues
of the fabric of the universe. They feel a warmth spread,
sensing an unearthly, omnipresent entity watching over them--
smiling, protecting them from the shadows of the night.

The spheres seem to blink--like living, thriving bodies.
Their clouds of hair serpentine across the sky,
humanizing what is too large to absorb, to fathom.
Faces seem to look down on the face of humanity--
faces whose features are separated by light years
of distance. Faces whose features are composed of
burning, furious flames of heat--enough to destroy
a civilization, to annihilate life. The stars are powerful,
but deadly.

And yet, a galaxy of nothingness lies ahead,
suffocating us, compressing the earth.
Regardless of how comforting the night skies may appear,
we are looking at an empty chasm. A spiralling void.
A void of utter, asphyxiating silence that will never be lifted.
Because the universe is a vacuum; humanity is all alone.
When navigators stare up, basking in the heat of the stars,
they are only basking in the heat of the people around them--
they are staring at the unending void of the universe.

Phosphene

I can see stars--luminous, dancing stars,
with my eyes closed; where I expect to see
an obsidian void, I see a symphony of colored spheres,
or swirls surrounding a lustrous center.
When the sun shines too brightly, I let my eyelids drop,
little knowing that a harmony of glowing, amber hues
await, a disorienting sight--
little knowing that I can never escape the light.

I see galaxies in the sparkling swirls--faintly glowing
spirals against a darkened backdrop. Crimson clouds mingled
with blue remind me of nebulae, as do green slashes overlapping with
gold. Nomadic, spectral figurines--like canopies of
celestial dust, looming forward, their arms outstretched.
I see the sun in golden globes, Saturn in miniature discs
that envelope a revolving sphere,
while the darkness gives way like a cloth so sheer.

The view when my eyes are open is commonplace;
nothing captivating, alluring, romantic--
trees are green, the sky is pale, the ground rough and coarse.
But I can escape that--not by physically traveling,
but by letting my mind, my imagination take over my path.
By letting my eyelids fall, I am invulnerable--
for I can visit the realms and territories beyond the skies.
I can view the universe behind my eyes.

Falsity

Her face is golden, a pixie's glow,
a wide nose and pale eyes. Her face loosens into
a broad smile every time she sees me. Rather plump at first,
her physique seems to vacillate once she comes
closer. Her round fingers wave to me, loving and excited.
Her room is a miracle--it
shimmers and shines, curved edges.

Time is difficult, but I know it passes. As she grew older,
her expression would turn more tragic. I would swim
towards her, and she'd smile, her mouth
oddly distorted. One day, she picked up my bowl.
It was the first time I left the house, and ventured
into unknown, perilous waters.

She took me to the sea--a curved expanse of blue;
I felt something stir--my bowl shook slightly. She whispered
something incoherent, and tipped me into the churning waters.
And I saw her for the first time, free of the sphere of glass
that encircled me. Her face was different--not because it was
filled with tears. Something else--it no longer looked odd, but
beautiful. Her hair wasn't a shapeless mass of red--
it was in curls of beauty. The freckles on her face
changed their positions--miraculous, but true.

The sky and the sea are endless entities of blue--
no longer limited by arcs, but extending into infinity.
The earth is no longer a globe, but an inexhaustible realm.
The world is not what I thought it was; seven years later,
only the hues remain the same. The rest--vanished as quickly
as she did, abandoning me.
I've been living under the hood of deception, a petty prevarication. My reality
was never what hers was--she was never the plump, flat-nosed
girl I had grown up with. Her fingers are long, slender--they
wave to me right now, for the last time.
She walks away slowly, gracefully; not the clumsy pirouette
I had grown accustomed to.
I look about at my new home, devastated. She's not the girl
I thought she was... the world is nothing I'm familiar with.
I've been around for eight years, but I'm a newcomer,
inexperienced and disoriented, stranded in dangerous, unknown waters.
I don't blame her for leaving me; I blame her for leaving
me with nothing but emotions of betrayal.
My life has been a lie.

Skyscrapers

They hurtle towards the sky, towards the stars,
faster than the speed of thought. Embedding their tips
into the pellucid marshmallow of clouds,
piercing a hole, letting in shafts of golden sun,
allowing light to spill onto the earth.

They allow entire streets to darken; they deny visibility
to those unfortunate people facing away from the sun.
Their metal shards overpower everything else
in humanity's vicinity--they can create the sensation of night,
simply by existing.

They conjure the bliss of warmth, of protection,
by shielding the chilled folk from the glacial breeze
that emanates from the poles of the earth.
They block, confidently and with poise,
the swirls of wind that people strive to avoid.

They magnify the gentle murmurs
of an innocent squall--to twice, thrice in magnitude.
They warp the perception of hearing by forming
a tunnel--through which once innocuous winds
whoosh, dropping the climate by several degrees.

And who creates these formidable creatures? Only that
she will be the most powerful of them all, miles above
the pedestrian, above those dallying on the streets.
She will perch on the summit, the pinnacle
of the city, watch as the ants of people scurry about--
unimportant, inconsequential. She keeps rising, physically
and figuratively, as she climbs up the mountain.
Once she ascends the skyscraper, she stops.
Gazes around, and smiles--knowing that she reduced
humanity to pinpricks. Such is her power,
the power of an architect.

Vellichor

Pieces of metal clink and clank. Triggering a lever,
letting ink spill upon yellowed parchment.
Violet blood oozes onto a page, fresh, aromatic.
Authentic. Millennia away from the age of technology,
mildly rusty. Out-of-place, alien in a modern house,
with modern people attempting to placate
bits that belong ages away.

Spirits rise from the crevices, fingertips
that had touched the ancient keys.
Silver mist sighs from the gaps created,
as words float about, words that have been
brought to life. Because they have been
recaptured. It's hard to remember something,
some words, if you don't know they exist.

But now I know; I can feel its essence--
ideas become tangible, something I can inhale,
taste at the tip of my tongue, feel it
whispering in my ear, dance before my eyes.
Vellichor--the wistfulness
of old bookstores. Right in my room. My heart
kneels in humility, my mind gapes in awe.

Old authors wave at me. I smile and wave back.
I'll never be one of you, I think. But at least I have
your ideas hovering about, your words of
encouragement. Your smiles. Goodbye...
... for now. Until I revisit your realm again.

Clamor

They sat at a round table, tense, waiting,
hovering, intangible and pellucid
surrounded by golden clouds and pinking skies
while rain pattered below,
drizzles rumbled as the sky cried.

It rarely rains at this time of the year, over
the Indian subcontinent;
the time of the year when the fumes choke the air,
rising up in menacing swirls, asphyxiating;
golden flares glare at the heavens, blinding,
dotted with softer hues that die in the blaze.

It was a round table, there is no head,
but the leader stood up, edged to the edge of the clouds,
looked down; smiled for a second, waved a silvery arm,
basked in the silence that accompanied the rains,
smiled as the only noise that emanated from the ground
was the wind.
The others applauded, casting admiring glances
at her perspicacity.

But then her smile waned; as if a bomb had burst,
which it had, firecrackers illuminated the chilly night,
curls of smoke embraced the air, the freeze dissipated
as the fire danced in mesmerizing explosions
shaking the fragile clouds, unsettling her balance.

Tears in her eyes, she gripped the edge of the clouds.
The night was blinking mischievously, radiant with energy,
 abounding with clamor, delighting in rebellion.
Inconspicuously wiping her eyes, so that the others wouldn't see,
she prayed that the earth would survive this new onslaught,
that she would aspire to preserve her precious life.

Spheres of Fate

People trample on the

 streets as though it were theirs,

throwing plastics upon me, their mother, as if it were rightfully mine.

When they feel cold, they light fires—

wicked, iridescent fires that illuminate the glacial frost,

the glacial frost that is my friend—for it is pure, sweet, young.

The fires burn my skin, they hurt my eyes;

they may be a pleasure to the cravenly eyes of humanity, who fear the dark,

but they aren’t to me—they choke me, I cough relentlessly,

the earth shakes and the crust breaks,

shatters into a million fragments; bits of cement and glass cascade from the sky,

while I spin like a top, dizzied by the cataclysmic impact;

but from the devastation, I find a mild sense of relief,

a cathartic release—

I cannot always be perfect, be what my denizens want me to be. 

The sun is my moon at night; a glowing sphere of relief.

But he is not trampled upon, his beauties are not torn down…

by the creatures that inhabit his flickering flames—no, for the sun remains

as hale, as golden as the ground,

blooming with life, joy, youth

But I am a minuscule piece of land occupied by billions of people,

protecting them is so difficult, for they are never grateful. 

Initially, I was honored to have life—one among millions of planets,

the heavens chose me to house something so precious,

no one else.

But now, I believe that the heavens disliked me, envied me,

for Venus has retained her beauty—she is still as lovely a woman as before,

Jupiter has retained his majesty—still a redoubtable king,

Pluto has retained her winter wonderland—a humble princess of ice,

but I, I have dwindled to a little sphere of smoke, a sphere of suffering,

occupied by power, by blood, by envy, by war, 

as humanity kills the life that had been bequeathed to me.

I will not last long; I will be the first to perish—

I had been destined to live, to breathe for billions of years.

It’s all right for humanity—their life spans are microscopic; they come and go,

faster than the speed of thought,

and the inconceivable destruction they leave in their wake—

faster than I, an old mother, can comprehend.

I will lose my youthful beauty, my poise, my confidence—

it was a hapless twist of fate when the heavens selected me. 

I hope my mother won’t cry when I’m gone. 

A Fervent Fire

(Forthcoming in Sincerely Magazine)

Passion whistled through the trees,
in cold, fragmented tendrils,
through the interwoven twigs and fruits that hung from the branches
in a blissful stupor–
a product of nature’s might and power
Blowing as an invigorating gust
that enveloped all in its gaiety and ardor,
refreshing and inspiring, rejuvenating all it touched
as it playfully raced about, competing to see
who would reach the end of the forest line,
and explore beyond the known and comforting.
Passion burned an amber fire,
emanating an aura of golden light and zeal
illuminating all its rays fell upon,
bringing about warmth, joy and vigor
to the atmosphere, after the blaze of fervor had died out
and crumbled to a mere few ashes
that smoldered weakly, flickering feebly–
courtesy of the freezing breeze and passing moons.
Passion lapped against the shore, in a series of blue waves
that strengthened as the sun arced its way
across the sky.
It caressed her heart, encouraged her soul
to pursue the impossible, and to never let
her silvery moon remain concealed by layers of clouds
in case they weaken the tides’ rage, and cool down
the gleaming passion that dominated her spirits