chariots of gold

our eyes trace each line in the distance,
watching the horizon blaze into life,
golden hues from the east heralding
the morning;

in a blink, sunrise flows into sunset
and the white clouds are tinged with the
slightest hints of orange, the evening sky
stealing away the dying embers
of incandescence;

and in the night, lit only by the reflection
of sunlight in the moon and the occasional
blazing comet, we etch each word in stone,
and capture each moment in the mind’s eye.

for each and every day inevitably melts away,
like morning dew in the face of the afternoon heat,
but while we can, wrap each instance in significance
and frame it in our memory.

ouroboros

outside the glass panels frosted with condensation,
the painter colours the canvas of the sky
inky black, dotting the darkness with bright
points of light; stars and constellations
shining like beacons.

we sit opposite each other, the table
between us;

i twirl my pen absent-mindedly,
and the ink has already dried on the notepad
below - i have not touched it in two hours.
next to it, your coffee cools; the simmering
mists have dissipated, stolen away
in the chill of the airconditioning.

topics open themselves like blooming flowers
in the wide expanse of space between us, like the ouroboros
snake, intertwined in each other - there is no beginning,
no end; everything is interwoven like flawless, unblemished
silk garments.

and in imaginative explorations, i believe that is what we are;
like sine and cosine, our fates tangled together
in the fabric of life and reality and dreams.

and we continue talking. filling in the spaces and gaps
with inane conversation - but nothing is too drab,
too plain, to be included in the prose of our interactions.

the clock hangs overhead, minutes and seconds
making revolutions that go unnoticed,
unwelcomed. but with each arc of the pendulum,
golden rays of sunshine steal over the horizon

and steal away the dregs of time left, before you are whisked
away by the winds of fate; at the crossroads you take
a winding right, and i am (headed) left to cut through
the brambles of the overgrown path by myself.

and although in my dreams i have never conceived
of separation, in the crystal ball of divination
i see you once again.

and that is enough to let me let you go for now.

footprints in the sand

i wander off the grassy path
and onto the white expanse
of soft sand; alone with
the waves receding from the shoreline.

picking up a stick, i etch
letters deep into the ground,
words and phrases i want to say.

my shoes press themselves into
the sand, leaving a set of footprints
snaking through the beach -

leaving indelible marks on the beach,
remnants of my presence that will remain
even after a second set of footprints
meanders back to the plains.

forgotten touches

when the wind caught everything and flung them
haphazardly from the table, heedless of
order or possession;

he watched silently as everything
was tossed and turned; even as he tried valiantly
to keep his own notes down, he revelled
in the wind;

as suddenly as it came, it left,
and the heavy clouds lightened and cleared -
the sky melted into pale grey,

and all that was left was misplaced objects
strewn carelessly, and a memory
on his skin that only he knew.

and he mulled why the rain would come,
if the sky was still bright.

bridges

drumming his hands on the cold metal
of the railings, he leans out just a fraction,
his eyes closed in contemplation;

he traces mentally the images and sounds
of distant moments, captured in the click
of a shutter, and revisited in the space between
both ears;

but those moments have receded like the waves
underfoot, the sloshing river beneath the concrete
he stands on;

and now he stands on this bridge
between present and past; his feet guide him off the bridge,
back onto safe land

homeless

in the dusty streets, under inked-out skies,
hearing only the rustle of a plastic bag, caught
in the wind, he huddles under a brown
worn-out sackcloth;

in the morning, before the rickshaws
start dragging against the cobblestones, he is there
blinking sleep away, his tired eyes looking for anyone,
and no one in particular;

where the sun bleaches the gray sidewalk
white, where the air tingles with perspiration,
he sits there, one hand outstretched,
registering nothing, with nothing
in the register;

plucking futilely at the piano

i’m an architect of words, a builder of sentences,
and a mediocre one at that;

but my hands cannot craft, my fingers cannot strum,
my eyes cannot see what others cannot see;

depth of imagination only goes so far, skill only illustrates that much;
and especially when there was nothing to begin with.

it’ll be okay

whisper a lullaby into the air,
a slow melody that surrounds and
echoes a story, soothe me into
blissful dream;

spin me a fairytale of surreality,
built upon the power of imagination and
polished with healing intent, wiping away
the insecurities;

smile not with your face but with
your eyes, that sparkle that reaches past
superficial facades and past defenses, into
the heart;

and i’ll believe, everything’s going to be okay.