Deserved mourning

As you learnt 

Speaking and played 

With words.

Few got choked in 

Your mouth as you 

Stuttered.

As you learnt to 

Understand.

Ideas that came 

Your way.

Many got crushed 

In your mental clutter.

As you wrote 

And painted.

The characters that 

Ended up on 

The wrong side of 

The papers. 

The pens you've 

Lost. The pages 

You've torn. 

To teach you 

Step by step, 

The bricks that 

Have died. 

All those 

Martyred things 

Deserve, 

More mourning.

Perhaps with

Few roses and 

Extra daisies. 

And few lines of 

Poetic eulogies.

Flowers

Flowers are a 

Vague strand 

Of hope, 

When everything

Around has 

Surrendered to

The onslaught

Of dark.

The pale yellow

Of marigold might 

Not shine enough,

To break the

Tethers of night.

The bright red

Of roses might

Sulk in a corner

After failing to

Summon ample

Amount of fire.

As, sometimes

Surviving the

Storm is important,

Than making a 

Point.

The lilies and

The daisies, 

As they wait,

Not yielding to

The subjugation

Of demons..

They become 

Windows to the

Derailed rays of

Light.

The flowers 

In the night are

The first songs

Of an arriving

Dawn. 

Unfinished Things

I start writing stories

And leave them midway.

Then tear up the pages to

Let them rot in a corner.

I suppose, maybe

Regrets get me going.

Like the time I decided

To climb a mountain

And came back without

Reaching the top. 

The girl I let go,

Out of sheer arrogance.

When there were ample 

Chances to amend.

The trains I hop.

Buses I get down from.

The constant urge to

Escape and leave

Things incomplete. 

So ingrained is this

Act of self-sabotage that-

By the end of each poem, 

I tend to kill the poet in me, 

To hang him in the

Last paragraph. 

And if you decide to

Read me next time. 

Bring flowers and 

Eulogies to offer peace,

To all the unfinished

And incomplete things.