A Summer Toad

Every morning brought a steeper climb
Hands of clock ran faster than time

A quarter and an hour stretched too thin
Tiny escapes of chaos fuelled us in

Dusk gathered friends with a conflux of rants
Racing against deadlines thy sacrosanct.

Fallen leaves, broken twigs and with a fog of fear
The autumn slowly brought the summers near,

In the old pond, the new toads began to hop
Gulp in their throats echoing in the silence pin-drop,

Agonies and victories roared in sparring mats,
And our stirred souls asked us in inner chats –
Are we humans or a sheet of stats?

Published ‘Management Canvas, 2018 Edition’ © 

The Monsoon Sunflower

In novel air, tiny steps of fire and will
Heard a calling, from a castle on the hill

With crescent moon in its dark veiled skies
Its flickering neon twinkling, like still fireflies.

The eyelids closed with sparks entwine
Hopes brewing in for a new sunshine,

But the next dusk sent its boulders to crush
The opium of sleep being snatched from us.

In damp air, crammed space and the silent chatter
The synced hearts beating like the word shatter,

But the play ended with laughs on gain
Somersaulting emotions with the past in vain,
And then the sunflowers danced in rain.

Published ‘Management Canvas, 2018 Edition’ ©  

Grey Horizons

The autumn bled red,
with falling leaves
Standing naked,
brown scars on sleeves

Our silence stretching wider
than ocean’s boon
A field of sunflowers
withered in moon.

Vivacity

The night, slow as honey grows
Your skin, soft as petals of rose

Our dance burning with friction of tides
The tongues unfolding the bolted skies

Your curves meandering like bloomed meadows
Our hues painting a shade of shadows.

Orb of Flesh

Stripping your layers under the flow
A crescent moon, full of glow

Unraveling you, I understood soon
Why oceans rose at full moon.

Pyromaniacs

The flame kindled with a swirling kiss
Our skin glistening with pure bliss

Burning together, we soon burst
Our ashes turning to stardust

 

Rekindled

A long walk
A dusky sunset

The door opened
Their eyes wet

The vintage flashbacks
The lakeside bench

This fiery ember
Too hot to quench

The lips met
Their language,
French 

#8

When words failed,
Love found its voice in roses.

Glory?

Buildings crumple like ruptured veins
Blood smeared across window panes

They look in sky, reason for this bane
It wasn’t God but men in planes

Honour

Defying traditions, their hearts rebelled,
Set on wings, soon they fled.

Holding hands, they kindled a fire,
They now sleep together,
Their bed a burning pyre.