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Pic Source: Deviantart.com

Lyric is dead in a petal for being petal
and I find it in a wiped leaf on the glass
A leaf with veins catapulting child drops, on being wind kissed
It shows: the reminder not only lies in
air conditioners.

Knowing toxin and being toxic speak different
but not in a wall with distempers, as it imbibes much
to stay, to sight, to take in and thereby,
call one a poem.

If I call as such, what will it make of me?
Have I matured so much as to neglect a hue and still pen it?
The leaf nods but in a horizontal breeze.

‘Stop trying too hard. You already left an imprint on your bed for Me.

You already neglected one dew for the other’.

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THE NEW LEAF

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Pic Courtesy: http://www.tumblr.com

The bus stop, the bus
and the bus stop.
.
.
The pigeon feeding
on the crossing
isn’t a letter,


but a possibility.

The close horizon has
boiling kettles on blue flames,
getting bluer

and the eye chase
in a poem of
passing shades.

It just reels back
to what you call
dream.
.
.
.
Wind guests speak
in volumes.

Why do words die
after that?

BEGINNING

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Name: Land of Mist and Mystery.
Pic Courtesy: http://www.etsy.com

The arc beyond
the roofs, is so eager
to ask me,

for questioning is
sometimes
a way to include

and so it approaches
in pouring trees
and lanes

judging my
transparency.

~
The recent distemper
on my housing wall
is a cloud

teaching me rains
even in winter.

‘Don’t even try…

You can at best,
be a mist
near my door.’

I answer.

THE MIST

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Name: Empty Room
Photographer: Virginia Ateh
Link: http://orig12.deviantart.net/e0ba/f/2008/016/a/d/empty_room_by_virginia_ateh.jpg

The croaking of twigs
making their presence felt
is a restless night —

As the room takes nap
beside the bulb.

Only a matter of hours
and I will wake it up
and apologise —

It wasn’t right

My guilt will blow from
behind curtains
making it shatter.

I will try to console,
touching and kissing
the walls —

in pinned frames
of your memory.

MEMORIES

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Art Work : OF COURSE, A WATERCOLOR
Painter: Jennifer Allison
Link: http://onestreetshy.com/category/paintings-and-sketches/

Nature wears a celebration frock —
and in it, a flock of embroidered children roam
They all get accumulated at their motherly
woman;
a girl named Juliet Fletcher,
my bouquet fetcher on each eve.

What’s the purpose behind?
To gift the one woman, I love
To bring out the child in hers
To make her my woman.

In my path, I pass by a hundred women
I only see colours or in depth ‘omens’
Their movements are just directions
to mine.

I reach mine, waiting in thought’s park
I gift her
The sweet gust reveals —
‘… – 14 Feb 2014’

It’s her sigh
I only see a smile
I say ‘keep it’.

You once resided in a person
Now in a thought.

You are mine than ever
Isn’t that better?
Isn’t that a valentine?

A hand grips me
Yes! you were a living thought
Yes! you will remain my valentine.

I release the chrysanthemum coils
I see the gust speak
‘Juliet…
… – 14 Feb 2015’

This ‘promise’ day
showed me love in graves.

INFRARED VALENTINE