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.

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.

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.

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!..

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.