Tears of joy.

Mighty peaks, seemingly firm and unmoved,
Melt down in a mere monsoon, 
Into a collective wail of a thousand waterfalls.
It shall last the season.


Overdressed in an exotic fur of green,
and fuzzy clouds against will into an unfitting headgear,
The mountains with their expanded bases, finally at rest,
Are watching and sobbing.


Baked and cracked all summer, 
abandoned by their own family in search of more capable fathers.
Left alone to contemplate on this strange destiny
In the company of some wilting dry branches.
A harsh summer indeed.


Today with everyone home,
Nothing seems overdressed, nothing too much.
The joy so great, that smiles fail.
The mountains are weeping in joy of homecoming.
It shall last the season.

It did not stop him to find his soul, his happiness. His sanity welded to his beliefs, his happiness attached to his sand castles. He built them, he believed in them, he played with them and lived in them. People thought he was insane, but they were people. And people speak.
So what if his dreams were as impractical like peacocks in flight. But they were his, and of his creation. They were beautiful and they weren't wrong.


People were jealous after all. 

There was a boy. He thought that the grapes were green and the apples red. That all peaches were peaches. That trees were still and hearts moved. Once he saw grapes that weren't green and apples that weren't red. Peaches that were apricots afterall. He saw trees running with him, some fast and some slow while inside a train and that the overwhelming site of it all blinked no eye, the excitement moved no heart.

Rain.

Raindrops fall on my skin, pecking softly,

As spent fingers, on an old typewriter.

Glazing and polishing,

Losing me to the reflections.

Like an old woodworker

Cautious to scar the wood- just enough.

Drops evoke the many serpents on my forehead,

Into a slithering gait of a perplexed variety.

Creasing and creating channels,

Bounding liberating showers into pain.

The ones that survive, in the alcove of the eyes, nurtured-

Awaken the incapable tears of an earlier occasion,

They too fall.

I love the rain.

It stirs me to a thick consistency.

I am me and I loose myself.

It cools my charred skin of the sun’s brawl,

It burns my heart away of its coldness.

Rain provokes my pain,

Rain, conceals it too.

I too fall.

A cup of tea.

Watching sunrise from my terrace top, I slowly sip tea from a cup. All in vain efforts to shake off the last clinging residues from last night’s dream (and all the other nights too). Like spurting Bodhi trees on dilapidated constructions-It stood and grew. It is growing, still.

Sips of the hot liquid char my careless mouth and the scarlet sky burns my heart. I’m reminded of the times spent. I try bringing those vanilla memories closer to myself. They are but, just a handful. An evocative fable of a melancholic past hummed monotonously in the throbbing of my flaccid heart. I swirl the seemingly comforting liquid inside my mouth for a few seconds until it becomes unbearable. I gulp it down quick.

Little sips yet again pinched a hibernating self-loathing self awake. Blasphemous ordeals of love and ignorance, which I thought were left far behind, caught up quick, and this time taller and stronger. Like a creeper twirling around a support to stay, or a coin in the wishing well astray- I held faith strong and gulped. The remaining last few sips (now cold) from the cup.The sun is yet to grow warm and sky still a faded blue. It is time enough to contemplate the strange resemblance of the game-The cup and the tea, our lives, you and me.

The cup of tea is over, and so I guess we too, love.

The dying cloud mourns a loss,

and soil rejoices a gift of life.

Monsoons

Gurgling resounds and echoing yells of the enraged cloud

They proclaim a theft.
Led on by the violating wind messengers,

A bigger tantrum- fuming fury, lightning and sounds.
Today the cloud was torn to bits.

Its drops stolen.

You bring out the best in me, you bring out the worst in me