1 LETTER TO MILITIA CAMP FROM CABARET FLOOR
Only blue print -
Trigger, target, ice-cold order
All you need for your dance macabre .
Tinge mascara I rub on my eyes
Wearing both hands some glass bangles
My toes start a twirling murmur
Backed up by slightly naughty stare
They call it my dance macabre.
Yours ends with a pool of blood
Air is choked with laments and wail
After mine, though electrified
They can blissfully left for home
To imbue life with multi - chrome
2 AT THE MARKET CORNER
Look , that shiftless early-teen
Encircled with heavy bags of unsold meal.
Fails to propagate her eyes in shame
You, me ,we all are to knell
Before her unfathomed helplessness.
3 THE CUSTODY OF LIFE
One day all dreams turn flying ash
Not much remains beyond nought
Words turn infinitely void..
Following the trail of self-determined transmission
I fail to clutch anything.
The cavern which I choose to traverse is too long
I wade through its pitch-black dark
And under my feet a lethal quicksand
toss all my whole to sway..
In such utter drowning, I prepare
To be dust of vanquished fragments.
From the farthest edge
Of my fading memory
The soothing burble of two penny glass bangles
With the mingling sound of innocent giggle
Lifts me from downright fall
A magic emancipation
Returns - serene way to life.
How vibrant this blue planet !
Why then the umbra of portent dusk
Gradually devour the crimson glow
To set in the prevalent monologue of decay .?
The bereft foothill remains deadlike alone
In its self-chosen solitude.
From the oblivion, inaudible sounds of hoofs
Slides to regain its sonorous yell.
Only the murmuring rill keeps
The shadowy portrait of life.
I start my homeward journey
With a pail of slushy pain in heart .
How Could I now stand before her
With an unpretending smile ?
Walking so far abreast
So close in their taste
Why then sudden good-bye ?
No one puts straight-stare
Sharing some furtive glance
Treading even the last chance
Misses to say adieu
The fresh flowers in the vase
The painted inner canvas
The recall of candlelight dinner
All remain at trailing behind.
The stormy morning zephyr
The wet stone under feet
The droplets around eye-leaves
How lonely the crowded street !