The disease of spirit

I watch her from my window,
running from corner
to corner of the street,everyday
with this effusing hue
of untutored innocence,
I have seen people get killed
on this street
more often than i have
wanted to see people get killed,
She leaves me marginalized
in my walled pathosis of vitality
where all falls are vertical,
I'm a drowning bag of dirt
and she the southern wind
that makes my chest ache,
There are days when i wish
for her to be kind and stop,
My chest is blue inside out
before the smoke even hits the ceiling,
I fear she will look up someday
and her eyes will defeat me
in the fight for purpose,
Honestly,she is the most dangerous thing
i have come across

Potatoes

An empty booth
on the street,
cannot face the sun

A potato
hangs by a thread,
a potato !!

Grass mowed over
only just,
slants inwards

A lullaby to
the pine,
the wind distrusts me

A lone climber,
for the sierras
to disown

The last boat
to leave shore
cuts across a diving sun

Morning

The mistress in my room,
why does a necklet hang by her neck
and everything else is a pale reflection
of her body,
The branches of a tree outside
are flailing off my forehead
but i can only stare at her
with my imagination filling the room,
She moves away slowly
as if apathy is whispered to her
It starts to drizzle
and the morning is a climax of sorts..

Words not spoken

I could care less
for the flight of the jungle fowl,
tethered by my hopelessness
having slunk down a pond in the forest,
Where i sit
uninevented into what i had dreamed,
a man not myself,
The wind drives the trees
and not my sorrow instead,
There is a rhyme in the words not spoken
there is always a rhyme in the words not spoken,
and they are digging a hole for me

Bringing disorder to our perfected doom

It is midnight in gandhi's mind,
Its not time yet,to pick garbage off the street
so we sleep on it,and die too
There will be opportunities
to cut yourself from the knees
and demand sympathy from those who will walk,
walk into the barrel of a misfired gun
walk through a kingdom spitting fire
and collapsing on its mothers and fathers,
But there will not be the calling for a resurrection
if death won't be felt,now

And they say home is where the heart used to be....

And i mumbled words to the door
I will always be close,
to unbolt what life is left of you,
The lock clicked and i walked away
feeling caged with a key from the outside,
It is a battle for the intentionally lost
and the man on the inside always wins....

All the cows returning home

There is this air
halfway
to the sky,
the landing of feet
over snow
is the sound rapping
between thick ice
and the warmth of the sun
lost in it,
Moonlight is a lost childhood
waiting to cry out
of someone's blood and bone
A buck sneaking through the forest
is the rustle of a leaflet,
not yet having announced him
His heart thawed,his chances
gone by then