please
release me
from the trials
and the many denials
that render no meaning
and chisel away all feeling

each dream
like an old letter
tugs at your swollen heart
like a friend about to depart

life
is not
in the skies
or even in your eyes
it is just
a set of lies

so much noise
so little rhythm
so much around
so little within

a second stint
or my first instinct
why is it so wrong
to look a little beyond

did anyone watch him
take that unusual walk
after making stale promises
to the mirror faces
he knew so clear
that held him so dear
just like the brush
all fresh with paint
and some sludge of the river
that never did return him
despite the promise of the giver

you slipped
so suddenly away
that even now
every night and day
stands barred by the
words and things
i cannot do for they
would remind me of you

because i write
in words away from your own
do not destine me
to be woebegone
for you may have seen
the world a bit gay
but I have also
found a place to stay
whether in my drudgery
or my elusive dreams
or in the life
of the greens and streams

a question slight
or an eclipsed delight
on my way to the moon
a little too soon

He shifted his weight from one foot to another as he rang the bell. He questioned himself as to why he was standing in front of this door again. Yet again. While waiting for the door to be opened, he surveyed his clothes. Yes, the tear in his t-shirt was hardly visible. Yes, the ink he'd dropped on his trousers was now dulled by the dirt and grime. Yes, how old his shoes were could very well be passed off with a whine about the dust on the city's roads. Yes, he said to himself as he wiped his eyes just in time. She opened the door.

As he walked in, he handed her a fresh set of white flowers he'd picked off a plant on his way. They spoke of the weather outside but not a word was uttered about the weather inside his mind. Was a storm brewing? Had the rain stopped? Would the sun ever shine like it used to? He shook off the questions lest she saw. Yet she saw that his eyes were full of questions, that his t-shirt had a tear for it was the only thing he had to wear, that his shoes resembled a mouth open, and that his trousers had not been cleaned barring the sudden afternoon showers.

Small talk has an expiry period as though it were a medicine. Soon it was time to leave. He wished he could stay longer. "Not that hungry" he said in the hopes that she might insist to cook him something warm, maybe an egg, maybe coffee in a keg. But life has its ways, people have their days, and his days were probably over. He left saying his son had been repeatedly asking him to join in their friday dinner.

As he walked down the steps, the flat numbers began to stare back at him. Where would he go next? He collected his bag from the security and made another friendly call but cellphones can shut the world out and then, who was he in the world to anyone? A worthless son? A repenting husband? An unwanted father? A guilty man? A nobody? An outsider? Open the door to accept an outsider, would you?

as you went

if you had only lent

to the one left behind

a fraction of your strength

the many whys
of my livid life
are all over the skies
and welling in my own eyes

that tidy little roll of gauze
is like my dreams of dawn
here, but not here
unattainable, yet so clear

no prayers
no worship
no seekers
and no search
just a step
a single change
not the sea
but a raindrop

my ideals
are not like gifted lies
or mirrors so thin
that i'm lost within

my ideals
are not like azure skies
or roads so long
that i'm all wrong

my ideals
are not like happy sighs
or an alley so blind
that i've a captive mind

my ideals
yes, they are all mine

a drop of your own
a ray that had shone

among all the toys
amidst all the noise
bare of all the bright
is a message of light
the light says to me
that i must let it be
for i'm an inky stranger
better outside the manger

It's been eleven days since I stood by your side and watched the light in your eyes dissolve into your release and my captive tears.

It's been eleven days since I covered you in your cream towel and kissed your forehead, while it was still warm.

It's been eleven days since I let you go from being my honey bunny baby boy to the deceased pet whose CUPA number was 1551.

It's been eleven days since I came back home without having you standing at the landing or barking at me from downstairs.

It's been eleven days since I came home to find your blue medicine bowl and steel meal bowl empty and dry.

It's been eleven days since I put away all your medicines into a big red packet that you were sniffing at madly just a week ago.

It's been eleven days since I put your chains, collar, bedding, and your red brush into a big box you would have loved to chew.

It's been eleven days since I started sleeping with a big gap around my knees that you, and only you, could fill that snugly.

It's been eleven days since I have come home to hear no complaints about all your misdeeds from the day.

It's been eleven days since I have seen anyone at home have their routine biscuits with their tea.

It's been eleven very long days. I hope you're good, lazing with Rustom thinking of your next meal, while the current one is still awaiting digestion. Maybe you will bump into Jimmy or Stupi. Maybe you will all sit and woof away about us. Maybe once I'm there, too, we can play chase, eat Marie biscuits, and nap chest-to-chest at eleven in the morning. Maybe :)

the best dressed lie
of all our lives
is the endless sea
where loneliness thrives

an unhappy chase
under lights so limp
is bound to hurt, to
throw a little dirt