what are eyes without any light,

if not in love?

If not dreaming?


I am soaked in my bed

imbued with darkness all around

such is the roof I know

that cannot have my wanderings bound


there I see many suns rising

and many a moon does shine

eternal sprouting of yearning and ache,

satiates as a day breaks into infinite


the days we have spent,

and, yet a life to spend with you


singular is my love for you

with multitude of hues imparted

sky of my skin brims of love and rain

there rainbows gleam un-thwarted


rapacious is the deluge of my desires

thinking of you, longing for you

lower your embankments as I knock

as your heart echoes, ‘I love you too’


embrace me whole

drenching you, quenching you…


©Written Frames, 2018

Love and dreams know no bounds. It wanders in quest of passion and perseverance.





the one who lose them,

they are known for years



the ones who lose me alike

do they know me for years?


we intersect at a time,

else were the parallel lines,

where a bifurcation begins


yet we collide,

our hands held for a while

foreshadows a third road,

somewhere it to be laid

for us to walk together then




we tread on a bridge of crumbling cards,

the game is lost since the start,

but, a few steps are firm to fall

only if we tell a spade from a heart,

as yearnings never forsake

a living hearth burning of love


perhaps”, I say

as my heart burns now


©Written Frames, 2018

Uncertainty is yet an another indication to your undeniable affinity towards the source of it.








as if,

we are stranded on a beach

like emptied bottles and slippers abandoned,

perpetually swallowed by bellows bleak,

awaiting to be claimed


…… ……


yet we stray,

in refuge of muck, moss and sand

this love is like a sea wave,

it brims the forsaken with hope

and empties as it recedes away


©Written Frames, 2018

P.S. No, I have not been to oceans today. Yet the image of an empty bottle stranded on the shoreline is so vivid before my eyes. I think of growing old and perhaps empty as the oceans cradle the bottle in its spasmodic symphony of life, as such it comes and as such it goes away…..



I bleed from the bruises,

unseen dribble and drifts,

shaping the speckles slowly,

mar not the mirror of my memory

but the sponge of my character

– so soaked and heavy ….


I reflect on my fragrant past

like a baby lulled in maternal arms,

with a settled heart and a poultice of warmth,

swathing the cuts, salving my missing shards

I shed when I feel my heart….


I found myself in labyrinth of time,

and you find this host riddled by parasites

seeds of mephitic moments ooze of rage,

silently changing, slightly every time,

as every encounter conjures a fresh decline

do you see such saline conduct of my appetite?





©Written Frames, 2018

How strange it is that I hardly hold any memory to reflect upon if it is not the memory with happy faces….

And how strange it is that I think of such memories with a heavy heart which is nothing but a by-product of emotions that bad moments had planted in my behavior all along….

Ruins of Love


flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes

susurrating remains of love are imbibed by the sun

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


faded red fabric and fainting scent of a white rose

clutch at the waistline, the fingers wither to bones (one by one)

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes


dying moisture in eyes is remainder of remorse

sweet tooth is tamed, of raisins and that wine had won

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


lice of memories pierce the ache of this shredding host

gouge the garment, spill of their syrups and scent as undone

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes


the froth of promises & oaths, fading with stagnant cold

still sunsets bemoan the threads, as strayed with windswept spun

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


yet, dark clouds of mockery might burst open to drench and emboss,

my tatters scorched, when avalanche of death has begun

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


©Written Frames, 2018

P.S. This is my first attempt at writing Villanelle and I totally enjoyed adapting to its intricate structure. I am one unorganized, undisciplined soul who is inclined to write free verses – raw and natural, however, with this one I absolutely surrendered to the beauty of such poetic form and learning it to add yet an another experience to this artistic venture we are on…..

Hope you enjoy it!



Some people know love,
but are not lovers

They are the broken ones,
with their hearts excavated,
filled with tears of self-pity

They are theatrical cowards,
With servile smiles, bypassing
blatant clash of love and its turmoil

Some of us know love
for how we are loved,
with seedlings planted

Some of us know love
but have forgotten how to love,
the plants growing under the twilight glow
with consummate bloom,
yet never harvested

©Written Frames, 2018

To love is an act of brave; to accept and claim is its war and to be loved back is its victory….

P.S. Thank you D for sharing such a captivating picture that adds to the beauty of this heartfelt poem… ❤ ❤