Poetry of routine: The Crossing

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blows of routine, mourned

dent in chest and ache of lemons

squeezed to drink, to refill

 

honking horns, vrooming

breath savoring the phase of wait

men stewing under their noses

 

galloping gait, impatient

kicking the pebbles and people marching

the paradox of them coming to leave

 

a busy crossing, a musing

curlicues of civilization on interrogative hooks

moving, though not looking back for once

 

©Written Frames, 2019

one of them

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gushing wind and the cold night

no soul, no shadow by my side

it is deep and deadly dark inside

shuddering my self-pride,

spewing symptoms of inner blight

tears buffer in the eyes

pleading me guilty

crushing my assumed might

 

I think of the great good men

the hypocrites, all passing by

in their languid moves of pretense

betraying me with my knowledge

of who am I, but not one of them?

 

“Who are you?”

Do you ask yourself? I do.

 

Do I get my answers?

No. I choose not to.

 

in the dark, I see no one to blame onto

in its sheer silence, I hear no one to my rescue

distraction doesn’t come to me

I am hungry, I am starving, I am mortified

yet so reluctant to feed myself, I decry

having only my ego, my pride on the menu

by no means such hunger-pangs I shall abide

 

I sleep on it.

 

©Written Frames, 2019

The skill of escape is mastered by us all.

Behold

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Charismatic stature of universe

Your skin sojourns the summer sun

Incarnadined glow around the lethal turns

Colors me into disguise of you

Behold me, I breathe gratitude

 

Your body of bosky mountains and valleys

Flexuous frail under the darkling sky

Breaths of zephyr into my moist pits

Your hair cloud devours the long nights

My eloquence flinches down my gut

 

You are my arrant actuality

An eternal stop of the wayfarer

Yield into oblivion, see thine ethereal beauty

Perennial lachrymal flow of euphoria

Projects a picture perfect of you, on me

 

Behold thyself

Follow my sight to know who you are . . .

 

©Written Frames, 2018

 

Shades And Tints

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A coiled convolution, not checkered skin with monochrome base

We don’t breathe black or white but radiant fire

Heap of hues stacked to slip beneath our foot

Shade by shade, garnishes the path we take and walk

 

Yes, we are shades and tints, never a color

A call for a choice what attracts and repels

To color a leaf spring green or of autumn-ash

Pick a pastel and paint the experience of this landscape

 

We ain’t black or white tinned, this skin of vanilla shade

Circumstantial bad and good, love and hate

Suit of first hues unraveled define us in their eyes

Wait for us to dye in different blush before you judge us away

 

Yes, we are shades and tints on trial

Aim to fuse into earth toned, blooming colorful flowers

With running blue and swaying greens, of bright beams through the grey clouds of destiny

To be loved by the bodies pigmented in the colors of different direction they walk

 

adapting and accepting

 

© Written Frames, 2018

Four-Walled

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I am four-walled

willingly zoned,

I deny to step out

The cozy premises

Tempts me

I am the ruler,

Have no one to challenge or shout!

What goes around?

Why would I care,

I am happily ignorant

Living with my manifestations

Of glory and grandeur

Which is self-proclaimed!!

 

At times I travel

For a change of place

What to explore?

What to chase?

To run is definitely not my pace.

Anyway I started,

My destination I reached

But Alas!!

Or has my interest peaked?

I end up in the place

Of my beginning

What a shame!

I am four-walled again.

 

 

Comfort zone is nothing less than a swamp, where you continue to slip deep down bit by bit, inch by inch for every desire and chance of bringing a change is entertained in thoughts but never through actions.

What do we call such people?

Agoraphobic?

Introverts?

Icebergs?

Self-Flatterer?

© Written Frames, 2017

Deny

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