Love, Thy Future!

Love, Thy Future!

I saw the fabric of time rolling out,

punctuated with empty spaces,

waiting for victims,

eyes in a shroud;
A sieve, I perceive,
Pulls me under,
Welcomes with hunger, receives . . .

I slipped,

I fell,

through a worn out weft,

Hanging by a shard –

A strong frayed end that binds

others like me with hearts hard;

A tangled web stitched with hope,
stronger than any rope;

As I sway on the fringes,

life goes by whizzing;

head buzzing,
I hang on, barely flinching,

Hanging by a thread,

I meet an old bed-fellow -
how'd she get out of my head?
her name is Past,
You also know her as The Dark Angel of Dread;

She waves out – “hello?!

Here’s a hand,

I’ll come back
as whatever you choose to start over,

Your present, is what I hunger,
come on, you rover!”

Ignoring,

Controlling,

Praying,

Looking away,

I see a beautiful dream:

A friend, if I may . . .

A lovely damsel,

Such a lovely queen;

Shyly she reaches out,a frail hand,

"Come, walk with me;

My name is eternity,

future, faith, serenity;

Love thyself,

I’m your fiancé."

Meet Faith

What’s has been in my heart is finally down on paper. And if all goes well, she should be in my arms and under me ;-) by May end!

Ain't she a bombshell?

Promises

The promises we make,
Are the ones we never keep;
Tried to bake and eat the cake,
Sowing, unknowing what we reap;

A car with multiple drivers’ seats,
A multiplex with a single screen;
To tinsel town starlet’s been,
Fancy restaurants, eating putrid meats;

The Wait

She caresses my eyelids:
Teases;

A feather she uses:
Soothes;

I turn to her and find:
Creases;

The curtain flutters
Insects in symphony
Shhh . . . she’s conducting
A long honk
A passing truck
The sound of distant thoughts
Memories,
A cry for help,
Screams from the past;

I turn again and find:
Lumps

She’s gone.
Lost.
Churned away,
In a whirlpool of thought;

Damp bed sheets,
Dank pillow,
Sweat, tears,
Residual fears.

Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Marches on the rhythmic clock;

Every hour, ticked number,
The mind going number,
I wait, for sweet, sweet slumber.

My Two Bits

Waning wiles,
Crepuscular charms;
Icy isles,
Silent storms;

Fire fighting,
Dying desire;
Wounded writing,
Instigating ire;

Warm wounds,
Cold hearts;
Breaking bounds,
Precious – parts. . .

Cologne

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume

Nothing ever lasts
Except fragrant pasts;
Sprays of passion,
Whiffs of desire,
Love potion,
Ribbed latex, stoking fire

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume

Nothing ever lasts
Even fragrant pasts;
Sprays of laughter,
Whiffs of compassion,
Love’s charter,
Happy ending; first impression

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume;

Nothing ever lasts
Except the residue in lovers hearts;

Empty bottles of perfume,
Come closer, inhale:
Love's waiting to bloom.

Between The Cracks

Between The Cracks

In the space between happy and sad,
The line between good and bad;
In the shadows cast by the setting sun,
The silence after a shot from a gun;

In the emptiness between a crowd,
A cocoon of grief bound;
In the light shadows of doubt, shroud:
Paths to new futures waiting to be found;

In the agonizing slowness of time,
In words with reason for rhyme;
In the madness of sanity,
We tried - losing to vanity;

In hate we found love,
In love we found hate;
In remembrance, we bow our heads low;
In defiance, we fight fate.

(Dedicated to Lil Mousie. Despite everything, you still end up giving me precious gifts. This time I thank you for giving me back my poetry . . .)

The Battle of the Bulge. Begins.

At just an inch and a few millimeters short of six feet, I stand tall. Taller than most Indian men, in the very least. But, if you see me in a crowd nowadays, you wouldn’t say so. That’s because, in the past couple of years my horizontal pride has been humbled by the slow and sure vertical growth.

Really humbling.

Especially, if one has been an active member of the Fit-For-Life-And-No!-Fat-Can-Never-Be-Us gang that would break into pink cheeked hilarity at the mere sight of our more well-rounded brethren.

Which is why, these days, you won’t notice me standing tall in a crowd. I’d be too busy turning my self into an oxymoron (a moron too! And no, an oxymoron is not a higher order moron. And yes! The pun is absolutely intentional). I do this by hunching in an effort to make myself as small as possible.

Apart from making myself small, I also try and ensure:
· Not walking next to/with people who are abnormally lean.
· That I wear stripes, as much as I can.
· Wearing light colours. (Mostly, because I love black . . .)
· Donning loose-fitting apparel.

Does any of this help me?

Not really. Because, as much as I cheat my own self – I’m fat. I can’t jog 12 km (bare feet!) anymore. I don’t have the stamina to sweat it out in the gym for an hour and a half. I can’t fit into my beautiful suits from just two years ago . . .

But, I will.

I woke up at 6.30 am this morning, with a beautiful vision of me being healthy again. This glorious vision alone replenished the long depleted fuel of inspiration that gets people out of bed at such unearthly hours for a jog.

And jog I did. Actually, who am I cheating again . . .? I got up, and went for a 30 minute brisk walk. All of my 109 kilos inspired to make themselves small, so I can stand tall once again.

Tomorrow I hit the gym, after the walk.

I will fight the bulk everyday. I will win back my own old self kilo by kilometer. Svelte by sweat.

Just for the record, I weigh 109 kilo’s as of today.
My waist measures 42 inches.

My self esteem doesn't even measure anymore . . .

The fight’s begun. We’ll review these figures in just one month.