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

Shadowed

I'm willowy, slender in comparison
when the sun rises, making the sky a rosy pink
I watch her awaken, escape the paradisiacal realm of dreams
with great reluctance; see her face being bathed
by sunlight--the very reason I exist

As the hours elapse, as she lives longer,
as the gentle sun showers life above ours heads,
she grows in height; I shrink relentlessly, overshone by the power
of her escalating spirits, which enlarge with the day
and its limited number of seconds

I trail behind her--soft, clandestine,
entangled at a point, letting our souls bloom forth
in opposing directions; she extends into the golden, shining world,
I descend into the darkening floor, the frenzied fragments
that create a sheltered dome of neglect

As the sun curtails its intensity, a benign hue,
I grow again--an endless, circular sphere of life and death
Her movements become slower, fatigued by seventeen hours of
circular motion, for she returns to the exact same place
every single day of every single year

I seek her attention; I prance about in glorious
steps, yet too monotonous for her selective taste; she seeks the sky,
the jewels of light, the diamond clouds, the amethyst evening, the onyx night
She craves the music of the heavens, rather than the haunting tunes,
the eerie chants of the underworld

Though powerless, I protect her; I shield her from isolation,
loneliness, I ensure that even when she's alone in a deserted ruin,
not a breath being inhaled for millions of miles, not a voice, not a beating heart--
contrary to what she'd believe, she's never truly alone
for I am always there, shadowing her

As the night elongates, I do as well; when she was young
she'd be afraid of me--she'd cry out as her lissome figure would silhouette
the walls; looming out of crevices in a rivulet of darkness; she'd run to her room
not knowing that I was following her, always following her,
back to under the covers, my presence overpowering

As her table lamp dies, I do as well; for I am not an entity,
but merely a lack of glow; my substance dissipates as her consciousness does as well;
for I cannot exist without the gift of luminosity--I am only defined by what I am not... a gaping hole.
I may shadow her, but I am hopelessly shadowed... for just as I am a void without light,
I am nothing without her, and her body, and her life


(Picture taken from https://longshotsblues.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/saturday-psychedelics-chasing-shadows-deep-purple/)

Castles in the Air

I tread on a staircase of golden matchsticks,
fragile and brittle; in the eyes of people, poised to snap
and hurl its contents onto the telluric surfaces of the ground.
I carry a bag of diaphanous mist, swirls of clouds,
webs of hoary haze; a blueprint in hand, a mesh of architecture,
billowing and spectral, leaving a trail of pearly white behind.
I have no foundation, only the air, only the nipping breeze.
And yet my fingers work, gripping the chisel,
carving and slashing at my bundles of mist,
creating shapes, turrets, pillars,
majestic, grandiose doors and entrances,
intricate furnishings, glossy like cornsilk, polished like gleaming emerald,
made of the eddies of clouds I carry upon my back.
People stare, point—they look at the phenomenon unfurling
before their eyes, for I am building castles in the air,
and refuse to let my construction collapse,
crumble into motes of glistering dust—demoted from the heavens
to the desiccated soil.
Minarets of silvery lattice shoot out to the universe,
nothing supporting them but my drive to succeed,
utterly vulnerable if not for the fence I’ve erected,
of convoluted coils, tendrils of smoke, contrasting against
the innocent pallor of my palace.
The angels stare, point—they look at the phenomenon unfurling
within the depths of their territory; for I am building castles in the air
and am refusing to let them fall.