BORDERS

Drawing lines in imaginary spaces

Dividing all by the color of their faces

Their races, their language, where their space is

Does not matter if the line cuts through homes

The tomes that they read about God

That say draw a line,

Draw a sword,

Draw blood

Let it flood,

Let each space be washed in red

The slaughtered heads which your lines create

Fate hangs in balance as with your HB2 Ajanta

You draw a line, so fine,

It’s only yours not mine

No rights, no left, no wrongs, no songs

No this, no that, no what, no ifs,

No buts, no whys

And then the darkening of the skies,

The Junes, the Julys

As people prepare to cross the line

You rant, with a map in hand

Showing them where they stand

As they huddle together inside a box

You built for them as home

You turn out the lights

Squeeze the fight out of them

As you turn on the gas.

THE PRELUDE

Bang your head against the wall
And fall
For reasons beyond your grasp
Only to beck and call.
And always like the ways
The stench of putrid days;
One stares at burnt bottom of pans,
While somewhere a pantomime plays.
Numbers on the pages you hold,
The clammy dungeon, the cold
Monster stands scythe-handed
For your life is sold.
The lullaby from the mouth
That silently shout
And stick out tongues to lick your face
Into a mesmerizing doubt,
Only then to slice you complete
The pleading bleat
Of the stab of your pen through the heart
Like a knife through dead meat.

What a start
To the beginning.

STATIC CONVERSATIONS

Old voices over phones with static
A face you once knew
But now thousands of miles away,
Seem a dim, faded projection
Like the stained pages of your diary
Dated 1986
Just like the remnants of tea-leaves
At the bottom of your cup.
Silence is your conversation
Though you thought you had
A million tales to tell.
The static is all that remains.

THE BUTCHER

Loneliness makes its onslaught felt –

The hanging carcass in the butcher’s shop.

Life drains out

With drops of blood and tears;

The glassy stare of the severed head.

While God laughs

Slicing another piece of you.

image courtesy: www.wired2theworld.com/nepal1.htm

MERGING

I shall not smell the rain
Or hear the breaking of dawn –
A trail of black smoke
Is all that I will be;
A thin sliver of ash and
A boat of flowers, afloat
As my body will bid adieu
To my soul.
I shall not smell the rain –
I will be the rain,
And I will be the breaking dawn.
In nothingness shall I exist.
I will be nothing – yet everything.