This full catastrophe living
is tough
morning catcalls of capricious longing
an abstemious journey that leaves me replete

with nothing

my mother always said
the reason why love matters
is so that we'll live life well
feel in sync,
even be lucky enough to be
touched

by an angel

Breathless
just reading it
his stress is understandable ...

One summation about poetry
that I have learnt is
the less a poetry /poem is understood
the more myriad views it throngs
in the throes of the human
unaccomplished mind
It leaves one with a gaping jaw
trying to comprehend
what the poet installed
in the mind's eyes

Read me some day,
dispassionately …
with wide open eyes,
I have decades behind
me as evidence

he took my paper heart
and folded it into a plane
threw it to the wind
and all my efforts were in vain
he stole my ink, my life
and wrote his name over again
he sits and grins and writes my death
and bleeds me through his pen
my bones have bent so many times
but never have they broke
yet then i felt the subtle crack
with every word he spoke
my body's cold, my breath is hot
my knives are sharp when mind is not
and right now they are all i've got
that listen.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
Ever he would hide
poesy he had bound.

When the poet failed,
no one sought his work.
But he never quailed,
left alone in murk.

When the poet passed,
everything he wrote
stood no chance to last.
He had never gloat.

When the poet ceased,
beauty went away.
Darkness was released.
Now, the night is day.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
We had all relied
on the poet's sound.