A City

It was a rainy midday noon,

No blue in sight, no quietly morose passerby,

The sky was a brilliant gray,

Mixed up in sandy grains of yesternight,

Coming down in deep, transparent pellets;

Pelting the pavements, dying in the millions,

Each a scream that no one heard,

Or perhaps you did, but seriously, who cared?

The cars did what they did,

Twisting this way and that, forever heading somewhere,

Though you wondered, where are they all going?

Though perhaps you could imagine,

That the World, the City, the Streets were empty,

Then perhaps, who knows, it wouldn't feel so lonely.

The rainy midnight hour,

No moon in sight, no insomniac or sleepwalker,

All hid from the burning of a million questions,

As the rain came slanting down across the streetlamps,

Blurring orange pools of lights,

Making wet a City that knew no contours,

Of the shape of a heart that was invisible,

Is invisible,

Is indivisible,

For the circumference of the City is known by your hands,

Dressing a multitude of colours that passed into the night,

That night,

As the words dropped away from the sky,

Melting across pavements,

As they made their way back into heaven.

Meaningless

give me colours,

give me sand,

give me breath,

and watch me dance:

atop a spiral,

beneath the waves,

within a bubble,

in outer-space:

beyond the moon,

beyond the sun,

beyond the quiet,

and when it's done:

I'll paint in shades;

of Sandcastles make,

a beating heart,

a meaningless date.

Deconstruction of My Constellations

He said,

Make peace,

With what? I retorted -

Perhaps, of

Brilliant Starshine, furthermost Constella:

Oh give it peace! For

Orion flirts with Andromeda

with passing nights and dying days,

the Vulpecula will have its ways,

Surely!

under diamond skies,

He said,

Don't cry,

For what? I answered -

Mayhaps, for

Easing Memories, innermost Constella:

Do not give it tears! If

Sorrow dances with Melancholia

with passing nights and dying days,

then Acceptance shall have its say,

Undoubtedly,

under diamond skies.

Reconfiguration

The SleepWalker

Under the mundane, rain-heavy sky - a wiry, half-lost whisper broke the masonry of silence, a wind-tossed susurration that echoed, against the nothingness, emptiness of this cityscape. Echoes: ill-defined, yet oddly melodious. This is a place of forgiveness, this is a place of vindication; an ambulatory figure cut a silhouette of pitch black, blackness, meandering with a gait that commanded a brilliant dose of hilarity, humorously ambivalent.

Such a theoretical figure, should we concur; like a hypothesis, if we infer - most likely, be without, significance, concluding in sentences unregulated by structures of decorum that insults your senses with passages of unrelenting vigor. He walks, dream-like, sleep-awake, a night-cold somnambulist, sleepingwalkingdreamingtalking, missinghatinglovingcrying; populates, a universe of immutable sorrow, swallowed by the mercy of a little-death, dead to the world in a realm of sand and rivers, for that eight hours.

The heart is mostly given to ghostly occupants but he keeps his own suite, and a drawing room. Thick curtains, brilliant noir, a shuttered existence. No light touches the table, unilluminating the table. A wispy dance of dust, a deadening silence, like dead, lovers.