30 October 2025

Banishment

Eventually, we get married,
travel, have kids,
drop them to school daily,
and eat the best meals in 
the world.

We make love,
laugh, fight,
and nurse each other’s
angry hearts
like it’s our seventh life.

Slow walks in the park
in old age,
proud of the children’s
small victories-
then a quick, painless death,
as if we manifested it all
in our previous lives.

Then we are reborn again,
at different corners of 
the world.
We bump into each other
in China- only to realise 
It's is our eighth life.

By then, we would be
Bored and, as an act of love,
We decide to auction 
Each other on the dark web.

Maybe a cosmic lord
Would bid high and realise 
How he made his ninth
Mistake in a row with 
the same couple.

We'd laugh at his foolish 
Face again, and he would 
Banish us again to earth.

We'd meet again to fall
In the same cycle-
Ohh how addicted he's 
To the story we've 
become.

How to Civilize a Nation

Enter a country
in the name of trade.
Find holes in their social fabric
and take over the authority
eventually.

Find gaps in their learnings,
thrust English
into the possibilities
of their dialect.
Tell them how uncivilized they are,
and keep repeating
how you’re their saviour
till they forget
their history.

Build railways for their labour,
schools for your propaganda,
and churches for your guilt.
Call it development.
Call it destiny.
Call it discovery-
till the robbed start
thanking the robber.

Leave monuments
that bear your names,
and minds
that bear your accent.
Teach them to bow
at invisible crowns,
to measure their worth
in imported manners.

Then leave-
but don’t really leave.
Stay inside their textbooks,
their grammar,
their corporate meetings
and dating apps.
Let your empire
live rent-free
in their metaphors.

When they rise again,
apologize formally-
with hashtags,
Netflix documentaries,
and guilt-washed accents.

Rename your conquest
as connection,
your looting as legacy.
Then smile,
because they’ll still
quote you
to sound intelligent.

And centuries later,
when they speak
your tongue
better than you-
call it progress.

Silhouette of Sins

Grasp me in your lips,
eat me with your thighs,
coax me with your 
deprecating acts and 
burn me with touch 
of your fingers.

The fire of your eyes,
guile of your smile,
pull me in your arms
and hug me tight.

Ruin me in every possible 
way like it's your right.

Give me reasons that 
sabotage rationality.
Trigger in me a theology
that's enslaves a 
behaviour that's edgy.

Let my faith collapse
between your breaths,
and my prayers melt
on your tongue.

Let every sigh
be a sermon of guilt,
and every pant,
a hymn of blasphemy.

If sin has a shape,
let it be your silhouette-
holy, wicked,
and unbearably human.

and if you can go 
beyond me to fuck the
God I believe in. 
Do it, so that, 
when my prayers 
are answered,

all I can hear is a 
moanfull satisfaction 
of your name.

Left Slipper

When her slipper from 
from the Kumbh stampede,
got away in the crowd.

Kicked around across
the road.
A dog took it
to the next street.

It found a way
to the sewers,
then to the nearby river,
and was gulped
by the ocean.

It reached another city.
A tramp found it
by the shore.
Placed it on his left foot
to check the size-

wore it along with
the right sandal he had 
picked up elsewhere.

A new story began.
A journey of walk, run,
and hustle in the rubble.

The slipper saw
new gods, new dirt,
and streets that
never slept.

It carried hunger,
dust, and songs
of cheap liquor shops-
the chants of Kumbh
long washed away.

tore open shortly.
found a landfill now.
beside a broken idol
and a torn tricolor
and a skull-

Faith, nation, and bones.
all used, worn, and 
misplaced, and replaced-
a story that got as 
human as it could.

29 October 2025

So what?

We stole some tissues
from the restaurant, so what?
We got a handful of sauf
wrapped in it, so what?

Once we stole soaps from
the hotel room, and the towels,
and the water bottles,
and the toiletries, as there was
nothing else left,
so what?

We are Indians, and the blood
that runs in our veins
demands it.

In fact, we deserve it.
and because we have spent
money, and if we can't make it
a paisa vasool affair-
the one last paisa is gonna
shame us down.

and because we have paid,
and we deserve it all-
the waiter should wait on us
like we are royalty,
the servant should act like they
are our slaves.

You may call it indecency,
so what? It's cruelty, so what?
It's tradition and culture, and it
runs back to five lakh years
Down in history.

And that's a fact, if the fact
is incorrect, so what?
Lying is a bad virtue,
so what?
We've licked hypocrisy like
It's ice cream and are
In a shameless peace.
So what?

We are and will be
Proud of our conduct...
so what?

Remind Me to miss you

Remind me to miss you.
Remind me to remember you
like I always have.

I keep forgetting names
and streets
or where my house is.

I keep forgetting
dates and faces
like I am being pushed
down a dungeon.

The appropriation
of my adult bones,
falling heavy on my 
childlike heart-

I keep searching for things
without knowing
what I am looking for.

It's numb where it 
shouldn't.
It's itchy where it 
shouldn't.

Can you come
and hold my hand?
Can you come
and remind me
what warmth feels like?

Teach me the smell
of fantasies.
Show me dreams
and teach me
how pain feels.

Remind me what 
reminiscing is by tracing 
your stories on my hand
till all my nerve endings.

burn it in my skin
before I lose it all
and fall down
an hopeless abyss.

Crush me with your softness
and bruise me with 
the itch of your love again.

Treat me like a toddler
one last time.
And if there is no hope
left-

strand me
in a certain dampness
that reeks of your love,

and dump me
in a desert
to search for hope again.

How to live 101

There should be a dream.
a list, an idea of life
to chase around.

No need for
grand philosophy
or borrowed ideology.
common sense can 
get you everywhere. 

Have a friend who's
equally crazy.
let him not let you
fall for idealism or slip 
through the cracks 
of darkness.

Live on rent,
own a vehicle,
read, travel,
fall in love and
don’t marry.

Be on the edge,
and rinse life
with uncertainty.
always keep moving.

Laugh too loud,
forgive too late,
and forget just enough
to keep going.

Learn to sit quietly
in your own mess,
and call it peace.
When the world
demands definitions,
be vague.
When it asks for purpose,
just breathe.

And at the fag end of life,
when they ask—
was it all worth it,
this lone, selfish life?

Tell them about 
all the good and bad 
sunsets without remorse,
and complaints.

it's a fair deal really.
you never know what 
the other side 
had to offer-

just like they would 
never know how 
cherries taste on this 
side of the mountain.
and that's alright.

and if at all someone
shows some real
interest. 
make a pact and
ask them write
something for you,

which can be used
as an epitaph on
an open grave that
comes, without a
tomb.

Sherlock of Poetry

I interpret, reinterpret,
misinterpret my thoughts
to find meaning 
where there is none.

I dumb down rationality,
deduce spirituality,
call out others for double 
standards while I rot in 
my own hypocrisy.

I am Sherlock Holmes of 
poetry who doesn't take
the job seriously.
all my cases are unsolved-

But that’s the charm, isn’t it?
to chase the echo
and not the voice,
to name the ache
and call it art.

I build metaphors
like makeshift shelters,
stay in them till it rains,
then move to another
half-finished verse.

Some days, I think
I’m writing to heal,
other days, just
to sound clever enough
to be left alone.

Still, I keep at it-
dissecting silence,
romanticizing misery,
putting rhythm to what 
should’ve been therapy.

And when I’m done,
I look at the mess and smile.
another case unsolved,
another poem pretending
to know why it exists-

Nihilist versions intermixed 
with existential ones-
and the urge of absurdist
to breakout like he's the 
Only one that matters-

The result- an embargo.

But maybe that’s enough-
to keep investigating meaning
in a world that keeps
burying evidence.

So cheers to
another case unsolved.
another cigarette lit in
the ruins of a thought.
maybe hell is poetry’s 
just-paperwork for 
the lost.

28 October 2025

Absurdist advice you will not follow

Bite your tongue 
intentionally and act like 
it’s the end of the world. 

Pinch yourself on the 
left thigh and announce 
how strong you are. 

Eat 10 green chilies 
at once and write about 
how salty the tears are. 

Sit beneath a banyan tree 
for a day and announce you 
are enlightened.

Thereafter, declare to
your family that you're 
renouncing the world-

and eat like a glutton, like 
you would be an ascetic 
the next day. 

Then, leave your home 
at midnight. Walk away 
barefoot and by noon-

when you feel hungry,
ask for alms, and if they don’t 
offer any, come back to 
your cozy bed. 

Look in the eyes of the
faces in the house that don’t 
have any remorse.

Smile at them and say 
thank you for watching,
like you were a side 
character of a TV serial-

And then, this is important.
get to your room.
turn the blinds on-

Incognito, jerk off.
Get under the blanket 
and thereafter cry.

Villain for Peace

Don't talk.
Don't talk and try
to be lovable and nice.

Enough smiles
and uncomfortable laughs,
awkward silences,
and half-truths
that are bad lies.

Don't give suggestions
or try to show care.
Don't suggest new outfits
or healthy diets
that I could try.

Don't try to sound easy
and try to make it simple.
Don't try to own my pain
like it's a DIY craft
from Pinterest.

And above all,
don't keep asking me
if I have found another girl.

You have broken me 
enough and moved on,
already.
Don't try to fix things,
just because you pity me.

Well wait,
you don't feel sorry for me.
You are doing this
because you want to be good
in your own eyes.

You are polishing your guilt
in my waters,
so you can glide your 
reflection without taking 
accountability.

Well, all the best.
Go get that happy sleep.
If your ghosts visit you,
gaslight them too-

tell them how I wasn't 
good enough.
tell them how bad I was.

You always needed
a villain for your peace.
and here I am,
serve me on a platter.

27 October 2025

Sorry Stranger

When my male gaze 
Falls on you,
The bra strap,
Triggering my 
Voyeuristic thoughts.
Vision going beyond 
Your dress-

The firm grip on 
Your breast,
My face all over your 
Bust, and belly button.
Ohh! This drool of
My lust.

The creases of your 
Panties guiding the
Carve of my tongue,
The roundness of your 
Butts, fitting in the
The clutches of my
Fingers.

Hell yes to this
Wet savory of desire.
Wild imagination of
Harmonal mishap.

Speaking about this
Is perhaps a crime.
But who has control 
Over the unhinged 
Thoughts?

Panties and politics,
Ass and asceticism-
Everything merging 
In one sloppy philosophy
Of “just looking.”-

Unzipping our 
Fantasies in public-
Den of hungry wolves
Is our mind-
How, wildest sex stays
In the skull inside.
Damn!..

26 October 2025

Unkind Love

Don't talk to me in
Intermittence.
Make yourself available.
Give me attention.
Gift me your seamless 
Compulsion.

Don't delay your replies.
I don't want the 
Time gap to act as mirror 
That reflects cracks in
Our unhinged talks.

Loosen up.
Shed the inhibition.
Bring it all and make
Me shameless.

Ridicule me. Humiliate.
The anger. The dirt. 
The love and punishments.
Give it all.

The touch that wounds
and heals alike.
The rage that hails
Upon like a fireball.

Your distance,
Your strange tenderness.
The insults, the pity,
The ghosted neglect.

Mercy to cruel little pauses.
The words that lose heat,
And the frustration that 
Feels rehearsed-

Give it all till I kneel 
Before the indifferent 
God you've become.

Give it all and
Make me yours in
Every unkind way.
Give it all till, the silence 
Between us starts
Bleeding your presence.

25 October 2025

Scratching Away Life

When I thrust my hand
In search of my usual
Stout manhood,
I couldn’t feel a thing 
In the morning.

A heist around my
Groin? What went
Wrong?
I guess I was dead.

Body lying around
Without any decency.
Mouth open.
Flies entering and 
Coming out.

Drool all over the 
Pillow. And hands 
Thrust in my pants.
Did I pass away 
Scratching my balls?

Hell of a last moments
Then- Three seconds
Of replay, maybe full 
Of relieving thoughts.

My son wouldn’t joke 
About me out of 
Respect, maybe.

But my grandkid, 
That devil,
He will scream about 
My awkward posture
in some podcast-

With a thumbnail,
"Men die as they live-
scratching problems
they never solved."

Soaking Her in a Song

When you soak her
In a song and keep
Listening to it 
Over and over-

The melodies stick
In your skin like
Someone cauterized
them in your bones-

The rhythms turn
into fragrance-
Even the sense of your
appetite emanates from 
the same tones-

Ohh! What a life.
What a disposition.

It's as if the moon 
Needs your validation.
Butterflies seek you
For color designs.

The sound of rain is
Your composition 
and you decide the
Picturesque course 
Of every river.

Your senses bask
In cosmic rhythms 
and you feel you're 
Forever redeemed,
Like you've tasted
Flight.

And your euphoria 
Is justified-
If love and music 
Doesn't give you wings,
Redbull never will.

23 October 2025

Transcendent Grief

When your father is 
Bedridden in the hospital 
And you can't stand his 
Suffering.

Sitting in the hallway 
Listening to the 
Heart monitor beep-
Every once in a while, 
Scared to a jump,
Thinking,
It has stopped. 

Do we have a word for 
That feeling? 

When he passes away,
And you gotta console 
Your mom, but the words 
Don't come out-

The blood thickens in 
Your veins, rushes into 
Eyes, but tears fail to
Come out.

When these languages 
Fail and the senses 
Give up-
When you feel like 
Stranded in your 
Mother tongue-

Where do the feelings go?

Do they transcend 
All these situations,
Compulsions and confines 
Of the words? Or
Do they keep lingering
And finding vents-

Till one day when you
Realise, you walk like him
And dress like him, and
Carry the same attitude-

And you wonder about 
The grief that never left 
But learned a quieter 
Language like empathy 
and gratitude.

21 October 2025

Moral Onus

Good people always 
Suffer and bad people 
Get away with their
Acts.
People keep saying 
That.

But who's good and
Who's bad?

The rich?
Crooks with silver spoons,
Bloody thieves in 
Glass castles.
Haughty, immoral and 
Not generous?

The poor?
Lazy with life,
Vices and bad behaviour.
The karma of past life has
Catched up to them?

We're perfectly 
Positioned, aren't we?? 
Not too high, 
Not too low.
From here, we can 
Look down and up,
To shift the blame on
Both sides.

Everyone is guilty,
except us. Isn't it?
Everyone cheats fate,
except us.
Everyone is stained,
except us.

This knack for 
Self justification,
As the moral compass
Always radiates out-

We shall draw a
Halo around our
Heads one day and
Worship the mirror 
That always shows
A flawed image of 
Others.

Perhaps that's how 
All religions evolved.
And nations-
We polished and the 
Mirrors got so bright-

A collective consensus 
Of not looking within 
Evolved, till the dirt 
Always seemed
Elsewhere.

20 October 2025

Serendipity

Whatever book you 
Enjoy is the best 
Book in the world.
Whatever movie you 
Adore is the best 
Movie ever.

Whatever person 
You've enjoyed 
Your time with-
However brief-
Past, present, future.

They're the best
Person of the times.

Shed the judgment 
In the brain.
Shed the jargon.
Shed the rigid 
Intellect that says
Otherwise.

An inch beyond the
Clutter of the head lies
A playful child.
Innocence lives in
The moment 
And forgets-

Embrace change,
Accept diversity.
Go on with the flow-
Adapt, improvise
And move ahead.

Do your part and 
Wait for the sweet
Accidents that 
Unveil wonders-

Life is a journey
Not destination.
And we're more of 
Pilgrims than 
Travellers-

So hop on till 
Serendipity finds 
Us all in all the 
Unexpected places.

Forever Arrival

It’s arriving. 
It seems near-
In the next city,
In the neighboring village,
In the next street or
In the room beside me.

Sometimes,
in the cusp of my palm-
but never in my mouth.
Is this my forbidden fruit?

the forever arriving hope.
the never reaching fulfillment.
the persistent incompleteness
and uneasiness in the nose-

Sometimes I wonder
if it has passed past me.
I don’t know.
and perhaps I shall not know.

The night is long,
the breeze has been kind,
and the wait, after all,
is a worship that’s blind.

The distance between
desire and fulfillment
tending to halve after 
each leap but never 
enough to close the gap.

“Sunk cost fallacy “
said someone.
but what does a fool,
who calls himself 
a pilgrim know?

maybe Zeno’s ghost 
laughs from the edge 
of time for being 
part of his paradox.

close enough to ache,
never enough to touch.
Achilles outrun by 
A slow tortoise-
Fate always has an
upper hand.

Weightless

After years of punishing 
myself for not being able to 
forget you,
I wake up today-
and you’re not in the air 
anymore.

No trace of your scent
on my mornings,
no silhouette of your head
lingering in stories.

The world feels wider,
brimming with possibilities.
no more your eyes
burning holes in my back.
no guilt for not belonging
to your songs.

It feels strange,
to have dreams that 
are clean,
to breathe without 
reminiscing.

Sixty kilos off my 
shoulders, and
the lightness I feel-
must be the air.
the buoyancy in my 
bones- is this the fresh 
taste of freedom?
must be.

Deep sighs and 
smooth rides like
a soaring flight.
I'm a bird again?

18 October 2025

Palatability

Toilet, bathroom, 
Washroom. Once loo, 
Now restroom-
The language keeps 
Getting sanitized.
Everything must be 
Palatable, softened, 
Perfumed, polite.

Crippled, handicapped, 
Disabled. Now, 
Specially abled.
Who rinses these 
Words in glitter?

Fired. Laid off. 
Downsized.
Talent restructuring.
Servant. Maid. 
Housekeeping.
Domestic help.
And now-
Home assistant.

Like we're gonna 
Treat them better 
With new names.

Bombing. Airstrike. 
Precision strike,
Collateral damage.
Ah yes, 
Surgical strike.
The political correctness,
To feeds the masses
The right kind of words
To sell the wrong 
Kind of truth.

The politeness in
Our words that 
Hide our intensions-
"Little boy".
"Laughing Buddha".
Guns painted in pink.
Violence rebranded
As revolution.

The facts strategically 
Placed in the gaps
Of headlines-
For the appeal of
The front page-
Cruelty now has a 
Smile.

15 October 2025

Total Internal Reflection

When you watch 
yourself from within-
Loads and loads of
tar-loaded goo,
smothering you 
and drowning and
gulping you up.

You scream for help,
but from whom?

In an abyss that
echoes your voice 
and reflects a
person you have 
never met-

How do you escape
the absurdity
you've become?

You, yourself,
spreading for miles 
and miles-
an infinite loop
that's bent, twisted,
and turned within 
yourself-

A snare,
a void,
an emptiness.
or an open sky?

And that's a tragedy,
or emancipation,
or imprisonment-
you never know.

Wherever you turn,
you end up in yourself.
You are trapped or free,
you never know.

Travelling in yourself
to end up repeatedly
in yourself-
this re-enforced
concrete of self-

Does that make you
a better person or 
an infinite loop of 
total internal reflection 
pushes you into
narcissism?

12 October 2025

Bon Appetit

If someone offered you 
A live chicken-

Would you cut it?
Would you hold it as it flutters.
Watch it bleed out,
Dip it in boiling water to 
Pluck the feathers?

Would you skin it,
Chop it into neat little pieces,
Boil it, spice it,
And enjoy your dinner?

Or would you rather 
Have an MNC to outsource
The work to its local
Branches-

To standardize a recipe.
Engineer a taste for 
Your tongue before you
Go gaga over the 
Illusion of flavor?

So what would you prefer?

The outsourced guilt
From a supply chain to
Supermarket. 
Or actual fingers buried 
In the blood before it
Lands in your tongue??

A packaged palatability 
For your conscience?
A raw Savory for its
Untamed taste??

Our compulsive acts,
Thrust down a system to 
Rinse them down with
A language that
Suits our morality-

And because a bullet 
Directly in the head 
May come with lots of 
Moral terpitud-
We shall outsource 
The work to remotely 
Controlled drones.

And the war crime 
That had become
Collateral damages 
Shall be game points
Soon-

So Bon appétit to 
The hunger spiced 
With lobbies.
Happy meals.

Intent

Intent is important 
to prove a crime,
according to IPC.
Action doesn’t matter much
without the intent.

Intent to kill,
intent to love,
intent to hate.

Loving without intent,
killing without meaning to.
hating without intending 
to hate.

But what if you can’t 
love someone
despite all the intent?
What if
the action
falls short?

What if I intend to kill you 
but all i could gather 
was just a little love?

What if I'm a bad bad
guy and despised myself 
all my life for that?

But what if I intend 
to die content,
but don't actually do 
anything about it?

but what if I intend 
to forgive myself just
before my death? 
what if I actually do?

does that wash away 
all the misery?

if I intend to be happy 
just before my death,
and die wearing a smile..
would you call that a 
happy life??

Is life just a long 
preface to a single,
deciding smile?
or that's just another
beautiful lie?

11 October 2025

Constipation

when you can't tell
if your writer's block 
is erectile dysfunction
or just constipation,

you try writing about it
to figure it all out.

and when you deduce 
your work between 
a good poem
and a bad poem-

the former being a 
rare event,
and the latter being any
uusual poem-

you conclude:
this one is closer 
to shit than cum.

Running

I run and run, searching
for what I don’t know.
I run and run, knocking doors,
to find who I don’t know.

I ask questions,
answer them myself,
and run more and more-
to find myself, or to hide,
I don’t know.

The rooms I find are 
No home.
The rooms I find are 
No hideouts.

The rooms I find reek
My absence and 
The rooms I find myself in
push me to run more 
And more.

It’s the sweat and 
The drool and panting 
my guts out, mother.
It’s my existential angst
holding my face, 
Taunting me by sticking 
its tongue out.

It’s black tar dripping
from the roads that are 
Closed.
Sandstorms of dreams
That have turned into
Blurbs.

My shoes are torn 
from yesterday's chase.
But feet still move like
Body remembers what 
The mind tries to forget.

And I run and run again
Without meaning to
Like stillness is louder 
Than my breath.

Oh, I am tired, mother.
And I think I am done.
Save me from myself.
Unbirth my existence.

Take me back into your 
Womb and pat me down 
to a long rest.
I've been tired mother,
And hopeless-

Tuck me to sleep to 
Wake me up again.

07 October 2025

Wonder between Pages

Our story is written 
Somewhere,
If not in Stardust,
In half-burnt charcoal.

If not in the golden pages
On the rough surface of 
Lichen-laden rock.

Preserved in a 
Century-old book,
If not in ancient exegesis.

Hints of old-style dried 
Roses between the pages,
Waiting for some kid to 
Accidentally read it.

He mumbles and laughs,
And screams in joy while 
Grasping words-

It’s fun to turn pages
And gleam with wonder 
Without even 
Understanding anything.

We are that story.
Not words.
We are the wonders 
Between the pages.

Turn to Silence

Turn to Silence-
Loneliness, aloofness, 
Isolation. 
Reclusive, seclusive.
Call it whatever you want.
But shut the noise.

Look within.
Dig a deep, deep well.
And take the plunge.
Scrape your own walls 
In the darkness.
Eat dirt.
Smell the stink.
But keep going.

There’ll be nails.
Broken glass.
Rat traps. Blades.
Broken condoms.
Failed relationships.
Mirages of money.
Cheap desires.
Overpriced temptations.

Your guilt gleams till
You're scared and 
Confused, but you gotta 
Get past that to 
Keep going.

You may see hints of
Light somewhere,
Don’t budge to its lure.
Don’t fall for its appeal.
For this is not a tunnel.

You are here to
Search for a spark.
You're in search of 
A fire within.
So keep going and
Go deeper, till you can 
Light a bonfire.

Don’t worry about  
The smoke.  
The spectators never  
Understand the fire.

Let them cough,  
Let them curse-  
They’ll call it madness  
Before they call it 
Awakening.

And only when you burn 
Enough within you  
Can really see how-  
Silence isn’t absence,  
It’s arrival.

03 October 2025

Innocent Love

When love is still
A fresh paint out of 
Coloring books.
The idea of it being 
In a place beyond 
Good or bad--

It's actual butterflies.
Light legs, dance 
Moves and radio 
Playing your favourite 
Songs--

You couldn't even
Say her name aloud,
Thinking whatever 
You felt was sacred,
And it needs to be
Preserved--

A dreamy prince riding
A horse and a princess 
Waiting for him in
A glass castle--

The clouds gather,
It rains, and you're 
Stupid enough to 
Believe coincidences
And you actually smile.

Then, adulthood 
Eats innocence.
Your fantasies leak
From the gaps in
Time that's not 
Relative.

You dare say, love
Is not unconditional 
One day, thinking-
The realisation is a
Pumped up achievement--

But you'll not be
Knowing it just yet-
About how you 
Killed in yourself,
A child.

02 October 2025

Demons

My demons stare 
At me from the dark- 
The clock whispers 
My name like I'm a 
Ticking bomb.

Every tick steals my 
Breath and I make
Deliberate efforts to
Remind me I'm alive.

The grip loosens,
Ground slips and 
Fate demands its
Rightful share-
How to hold it all
Together tonight?

I'm done tracing every 
Pulse like a prayer.
Done naming every 
Shadow of mine aloud.

This unusual knock
That seems to be 
From within today-

It breathes when I 
Breathe,
Grins when I choke,
And whispers- 
That only peace 
Is my surrender.

Mocking my efforts
To stay human,
Pushes me to edges
And I tend to give up.

If I let go,
Will it catch me?
Or will I discover
A new me, 
Tomorrow morning?

Soft-prey, marinated
In caffeine and despair-
Insomniacs are 
My favourite it says.

And lured by a few
Ounces of sleep-
My eyes close.
It turns dark.
The demon devours
Me, and whoever 
Wakes up-

Wears another shade 
Of eyebag, like 
The next morning is 
A Zombie Apocalypse.

01 October 2025

Resurrection

When Grandpa got 
Bedridden, stopped talking,
Everyone began visiting-
Aunts, in-laws, cousins.
Aunts of aunts,
Cousins of cousins.

Every day sipping chai,
Talking, reminiscing,
Full meals and gossip-
Waiting for him to die.

His breath would pace up
Or eyes would abnormally roll.
And shivers in his legs-
He was in and out
While everyone waited.

Days passed and weeks.
People came and went.
Some stood their ground,
Some were frustrated
And never came back.

Some thought they would 
Return once he died.
The event became a 
Running joke eventually.

One day, he stood up.
After a while, he started 
Walking around.
Talking and cussing like
He always did.

His revival confused 
Everyone. 
To be happy or sad?
The churning of free
Sucrose while they 
Waited for him to pass-

Was it this uncomfortable
When Jesus resurrected?
Might be.

Maybe Jesus cussed 
Everyone who were 
Disappointmented by
His resurrection.

Someone took a note
And it's a religious 
Scripture now.

Shoes

Dad doesn't wear 
His shoes. 
Weak knees- 
He fell off a couple 
Of times.
Afraid of wearing 
Them now.

But he polishes 
Every morning and 
Slides them under 
The cot, like it's a salute 
To his body that 
Doesn't obey.

Dreams of running 
With the shoes on 
But the reality of
Every morning is
A defeat of limping 
In the house.

This struggle-
Past borders, 
Past medals,
Past time itself to
Cope with the new
Reality-

The battlefield now
Is the hallway,
And victory is simply
Not falling.