They are forgiving

and therefore, I accuse them of destroying themselves
towards a bigger destruction

by having me in them,

in faces that are no longer different.


The After-Dream

Art © Vector De Yukitama

The green beak pecks my morning window,

rising in me, in volumes.

I open, to a complete disappearance

taking shape slowly in front of me, into a complete destruction

left with scattered, dusted, rusted and drenched victims

staring at my luxury with their wide open red, pale yellow, drugged blue eyes

pleading my humanity and morality
to call their short stay beautiful for the one last time
and that survival is blooming,

and if I do, they will take my death to be relatively better
as hope is a betterment at any stage,

diluting their own, sharing the life long suffering and pain

called colors.


I defy myself each time I am in for more.

Love and hate are tragedies.

The smallest ripple in a pool is a tragedy.

I overcome and evolve only when I experience
and all I keep doing is that.

No share of my brain has been left for me to eat.

I keep defying myself to remember me.

I am forgotten the day I am born

until my next womb crouch,

where things around me will be ugly,
where beauty will always be about to decay
and life will stink

but I can hold myself together
and sleep without thoughts

without even knowing I will be known.

I defy myself for the forgotten peace

between two consecutive collisions.


Will we have a shot
or have we already neglected many for a few?
I ask, as I place my eye on the tripod
Let it keep a note.

You do the same.
Hours pass by

and now we are a low explosion
suddenly blown out of a bush
I watch the souls of some leaves flutter away
getting seperated from us,
coming towards us,
passing us; disappearing.

I and you, my friend
We both just hugged as our wives,
on a roof somewhere, miles away,
as the birds flew over.

Did they feel it?
The air; the known air
May be they did
We can’t tell

Here, the hours pass slowly.

The python making its pass

on the viewfinder.


Wilderness births between those thighs
and they aren’t shy anymore to express.
Forests have a skin
Forests have truth,
is all they know and care to know
And how they are a forest too,
with trees of bones, and marshes of saliva
make them a bigger truth.

They – two beings, two travellers, two friends;
two souls in a forest
believing, combination is a hope called ‘one’;
nothingness is never empty, and
meaningless is the greatest meaning,
build a grass of depth and sit, measuring it with patience.

They touch the air.
They have come to converse with silence,
to take away some, to give some memories
as both know to endure and preserve sufferings.

Is it so?
Leaves cannot fake as humans,
they cannot be easily convinced.

I sneak in, as a slight change,
hanging as dusk;
as a Spidey on that damp trunk
Click! The flash lightning makes me silver
for a second
They noticed —
Are those their words?

Was it me?
Was it a glamour?

Why are they so interested in me
and not on those, who are burnt?

Those girls around them, now bones,
have always waited for them in Spring satins
and now they wait in Spring, without a satin.

Yes, I was there too, in that room
cobwebbing my question threads,
when the news flashed with a lightning
‘Wildfire breaks out’
I hanged down to the plug socket
The battery charger was an absence.

They take because sheds feel the need.
It doesn’t as openness helps wash
They will click, they will go
They like the new as a memory
Its new, soon becomes a petrichor

Forests are natural, they are not
They both said they love forests
and I also exist in those pair of eyes
who now see their love in posters on his wall

I look inbetween my thighs; how can forests be a truth,

when the truth in itself is a need.

‘Need’ to be kept,

‘need’ to be trimmed.