Confessions...

You are the poetry.





I could write...





Over and over.







Again.....

Salad...

Broken glasses. Minus power.


A filthy yesterday.





Rusted roses...









Lost pages. Spoilt ink.


A commonplace novel.





Dirty desires.....

Melange...

Chequered skies. Spent clouds.


A listless sunshine.





The runaway...









Monochromed rainbows. Stale rains.


A forgotten star.





Let go.....

Fly poster...

Rusted railings.


Glass penned time.





Lost meanings...









Midnight cigarette.


Dead stories.





Exiled words.....

Excerpts...

The empty rains.


The cornered streets.





The first kiss...









The drenched canvas.


The broken pencil.





The last goodbye.....

Outlaw...

The King. The Queen.


They lived happily.





Ever after...









The Man. The Lady.


They dwelt happily.





Never again.....

Threadbare...

The first rains.


The untamed curls.





The scent...







The empty bus stop.


The rusted radio.





Bob Dylan.....

Habit...

A brittle yesterday.

The inexpensive dreams.





Pieces... Crumbs...







A spent love song.


The half-priced minutes.





Nickels... Dimes.....

Crumbs...

Black coffee. Dead cigarette.


Good morning...







Spent city. Mistaken dreams.


Good day...







Overdone words. Tic-tac-toe.


Good night.....

Dictates...

The eyes said.



What the lips couldn't...





Fairytale...







The eyes said.



What the heart didn't...





Everyday.....

The first chapter...

He was twenty four.



She was thirty two.





Strange worlds.





Coupled by a desire.


To be...







Enter.



The Joker.....

Looking glass...

Thoughts. Dreams. Reality.

Misconception...





The cup. The lip.

The space...





Black. White. Shadows.

Everyday...





Long drives. Empty walks.

Fallacies...







You. Me. Us.


Snakes... Ladders.....

Bestseller...

Dusty night. Faulty stars.

Love song...





Roses. Violets. Orchids.

Short stories.





Held hands. Spent kisses.

Missed call...





Smoked tyre. Dead cigarette.

Bob Dylan...







Changed passwords. Changed statuses.


Checkmate.....

The lone skies...

The day Disha was born, Parvati was happy in her own way.










Away from the crowd of watchful eyes.








She wasn't a usual mother.






And, with Disha's newly found existence, she had her own reasons to smile.



To live...
















Parvati doesn't quite well remember how long she's been here.




She had grown a bit too familiar to the damp walls, that had many a story to tell, and the fragile, singular halogen, severely lacking character.












Every time, little  Disha stumbled at her door, trying hard to stand up, on her tender feet, Parvati drew her close to her inexpensive, sweaty saree-clad chest, at the cost of a few silent tears.










Parvati's days were pretty measured between watching her little Disha grow, and a few filthy notes of her routine income.






She had never been this happy, but somewhere, deep down, there was a thick, black cloud...



Questions... She didn't want to answer...









She just wished, against all hopes that, her daughter would never have to answer them.




That, the hypocrisy and double standards of the society, the fake people around, wouldn't turn thorns for her daughter.














The sky wasn't cloudy.




And yet, clearly enough, it lacked the sunshine.






The entire length of it, was pretty confused, a mass. Time hadn't stopped as the clock had ticked along another day.





Little Disha had learnt to walk, nervously though, on her tender feet.










Parvati couldn't help smiling to herself.















Somewhere, in the same city, yet another child grew up, to the thousand dreams of his "learned" parents...