A...

A dry leaf, walks by

Wearing the filthy traffic...







A tale, lies forgotten, in

The rusted, yellowed envelope...







A life lives, amidst

The few nickels and dimes...







A desire remains, at
The length of a cup and the lips...











A poetry is penned, in




The fragrance of the first rains.....

The scent of Peshawar...

A few dreams, out of place, elaborated
Unruly lengths of hair, a burqa, amidst...




There was family, there were friends, and
There was life, splashed in pastels...




Another everyday it was, sprawled in
The blackboard, the chalk dust, my childhood...




That had been redone was, my very own...

A lullaby to sleep to...







My dreams lingered, crumbs of them, soaked in


The scent of a drenched bullet.....

Thoughts of a midnight...

Lengths of a filth, travel
The skin of the rains...





The once spilled dreams wake, off a sleep


The grey of a half-burnt cigarette, forgotten...





The city I had called mine, sings folklore


The metallic cartilage stands, a stranger tonight...





My poetry is penned, in
The quiet of an emptiness...





Restless pastels you are, across my canvas


Off a midnight sleep.....

Unabridged...

A slice of a rainbow, draped across
My drenched, calm skies...



The stale palette smells of the first rain...





Morsels of a desire, forgotten in
What was left, off the morning coffee, and
The inexpensive, unhealthy roadside cuisine...





A scarred kite breathes democracy...





Shreds of painted words, splinters of a story
I spill them across the alloyed city life...



You are my poetry, unabridged.....

The poetry I couldn't find...

A few, inexpensive, white pages
The distance of a spoilt ink, travelled
Fills in...





A few untold tales, by
The filthy roadside
Rests, the minute...





Crumbs of words, bathed in them
My being a poet...





The city's decay was cleansed, but



The poetry, I couldn't find her.....

What couldn't be written...

I will not write you a story...





My words would never know
The endless seas you hide,within...




The tempest carried,in
The depths of your unkempt hair...




The fragrance of your wet skin
The singular hair clip,you had left behind...




The outline of yours,carried in
The lengths of a wordlessness...





I could never bleed them.....

Not a name to call...

My lone skies...




The sun burnt, spoilt palette

Crumbs of mischievous pastels, amongst...











The tired habit of a busy city...





Rusted men and weathered concrete, put aside

A wild rain, and the fragrance...











The search of an alley, undisturbed


The glass wings rested, on my skin...










The stale market would miss me, today...



I wouldn't call you a name.....