. From Bones to Dust .


From bones to dust,
into thin air;
Your pain dissolved.
Your existence;
into thin air.
You who laughed once,
and cried for life.
For life,
and sunny days together.
Days that never came..
that would now never come.
You who turned from bones to dust.
Your existence,
a beautiful dream for us.
A dream dreamt at dawn;
Half asleep,
begging the hour to hold on.
Nearing the end
Of an autumn song.
But when winter comes,
nights are long.
And they who loved,
and laughed once,
turn from bones to dust.
For the world,
their memories rust.
But for hearts that broke :


Our Cups of Tea .

They say you’ll never come back.
That my words won’t find their way to you.
And yet, I send them out into the universe.
I ignite your soul with my thoughts
and bring back to life
the fading memories of my childhood under your wings.

They say you’re gone, but only I know..
How you haunt my cups of tea.
How you paint your smile into my eyes.
How you take me on a ride back home.
To you, and me, and our cups of tea.

I close my eyes;
breathe in the fragrance I know so dearly.
And there, for a moment,
we melt together into the secrets of invisiblity.

The Dying Fire.


As a part of the photo-poetry collaboration that I started. This photo was sent by @himanshu_durden on instagram.

How innocent is our hopeful being.
Like a bonfire on a monsoon night :
Life, wishes and the happy things.
Everything goes down the drain.
What was once a bundle of flames,
Ready to consume and destroy.
At the same time, spreading warmth and joy.

A burning passion ;
Its destiny prewritten.
A drop of rain, and a few others
Come pouring down ;
A forbidden love that it was.
Of fire and water.
Like that of life
and constant laughter.
And yet the foolish
union was awaited,
But everything was to die out,
soon after they mated.

A drop, and then a few others.
The skies commanded a slow death
For the fire full of life.
From flames to ashes it turns.
Calling out for a breath of wind,
Like a drowning man,
in a sea of burning sins.

My Mother .


We are breathing miles apart,
But I still remember my mother.

I remember her,
not like I remember all those people
from years ago.
People who come and go.
I remember my mother,
like I remember my alphabets.
And like I remember my numbers.

I remember her beautiful smile,
and every freckle on her face.
I remember the golden earrings
that were so dear to her,
she’d never change.

I remember her voice;
her voice that changed from
anger to love in moments.
I remember her beatings,
the way she would express her annoyance,
trying so hard to hide her disappointment.

I remember her fingers,
that were slightly bent,
because there were stitches on them.
I remember every place she had hurt herself.
The stitches on her arm,
and the one on her forehead.
And I remember every story
behind them, and the pain that I had tried to feel
when she recounted them to me.

I remember her warm hugs,
and the smell of her skin against my nose.
The kind of fragrance
that I couldn’t find in a bottle.

It comes back to me sometimes,
on lonely nights, when I’m tired of life,
and I walk out to the balcony,
trying to picture her in the black of the sky.

It comes back to me, when I realize how
every sight in the world I’ve seen,
and every person I’ve made memories with,
could never match that feeling
I used to get, lying on my mother’s lap,
wishing I could perfectly fit in there again.