Destruction in Four parts.

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Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.

Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.

Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.

Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Breathing, smiling,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
once again.

I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that  the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

The Dance

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I’ve been meaning to learn to dance for about a year now, and I somehow never get to it( largely because of my two left feet and klutzy-ness) So while I was working on some illustrations with a Nat Cole song playing in the background I stumbled across this in my old sketchbook. Maybe I did learn to dance around and with words.

take two steps towards honesty
sway my hips abandoning all,
Slip and slide and eventually lie.

YOU,

take the lead,
moving and gathering me in your arms,
walking back,
breaking away from the buzz,
needing a pause.

WE

moved well,
when the beats played fast.
took the floor by a storm.
Stopped only when,
both of us faltered and fell down.

THEY,

Whistled and hooted when we started,
gave us space while showing us off,
mocked our eagerness behind our backs.
were eventually wrongly right,
about our lasts.

Paris, In retrospect

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Re-collecting,
The stranded sea shells,
About answers missed,
Forgetting statements said.

Posing with memories,
Suspended within;
masked by unfinished lines,
Delusions of blurred visions.

Like a street of crowded scenes,
That engulf before learning to breath.
Disoriented,
Staring at the voice,
Speaking but unable to see.

Drenched with inabilities,
We pause,
Restlessly and painfully aware,
Of an absence,
Existing in you and perhaps me,
Unnoticed by one too many.

However, these tiny thoughts.

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Tiny chairs,tiny feet,
Loud mouth,
Brilliant speech.

Tiny chairs, Tiny fingers,
Borrowed mind,
Generous thoughts.

Tiny chairs, tiny lives,
Unspoken lies,
Hidden cries.

Tiny chairs,Tiny eyes,
Big dreams,
Cowardly acts.

Tiny chairs,Tiny heads,
Colorful Clothes,
Unknown identity.

Tiny Chairs, Tiny lips,
Flying in this muddle,
Honest to a point of fault.

This too shall pass

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Cacophony of horns,
Symphony of shouts,
Dubious patterns of beliefs,
Carried around in parts.

Fast moving lights,
Edges in whites,
Throwing passing shadows,
Of faith and false advice.

Innocuous questions,
Shrouding the unreal,
Clarity in vagueness;
that justifies all ordeals.

Only you, My Dear,
Living in this zone,
Celebrating this suffocation,
Desolate with contrasts,
Numbly chanting-“this too shall pass”.

The Party

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Four dim lights,
Music floating around,
Young people swaying,
Feet etching a tattoo on the ground.

Three bottles of rum,
Snippets of conversation,
Bouts of laughter,
Stories told sans hesitation.

Two strangers,
Standing in different edges,
Hesitantly catching  each others’ eye,
Waiting for the chaos to tune out.

One mind,
Comprehending the dynamics of love and hate,
Amidst a party,
That doesn’t die down or resonate.