Know Why The Caged Bird Sings!
And I try walking backwards.
Fresh smile at the table,
Dressed for work,
Knots at the right place,
And you feel I slept sound.
And I try walking backwards.
No frown on my lips,
Greetings with a warm face,
Words sweet and tender,
And you feel I held up.
And I try walking backwards.
No tears from my eyes,
Nor twitching of the lashes,
Nor moistness at the corners,
And you feel I have not cried.
And I try walking backwards.
For you have not seen my wet eyes,
Nor faltering lips or spasmodic nights,
Caged am I still! You now know!
Know why the caged bird sings.
Let Me Rediscover You!
Veil not your frozen tears,
Behind the solemn eyes.
Veil not your lush beauty,
Behind the cheap mascara.
Veil not your rosy lips,
Behind the feigned smile.
Veil not your palping breath,
Behind the tutored stance.
Come, as you are, onto me,
For I judge not you.
Shred the mantle, blind
Let me rediscover you.
Ashes!
By the misty pane, over the candle flick,
The moon, shy, glides into the clouds thick,
Red eyes bore down on the parchment wet,
Dried and cringed from tears and sweat.
Toppled, the pot of ink on the table lay
Have had silently bowed to the winds’ say,
The quilt scribbling away words unspoken
Wishing to mend the strings broken.
Pages after pages the quilt bleeds,
As unto sweet longings it recedes
Carving delicate reminiscence faint
Of chained reveries, a tad restraint.
The wobbling flame, signals the end
But, more! More has to be penned.
Signed reluctantly, sealed with a kiss
With the pledge of a tomorrow, bliss!
And like epistles written every night,
Held tonight’s too to the flare bright
Crumbling, vanished into the smoke, lorn,
Dreams wrecked like a baby stillborn.
To collect, unto the urn, ashes, dry,
Bottling nights and memories wry
For one day, will set the urn free
On its way to you, across the sea.
Have you ever had lots to tell,
Writhing to break loose the spell?
Have you kept the nights awake,
Of hearts, desire and longings ache?
Colours
Barren canvas hung on the easel
Craving a touch from the brush
Dipped in rugged tones and lush hues
Tainted by a dab of crimson red.
And a touch the brush awaits
The gentle stroke from the master
The sensuous dip in the bottle of hues
The carnal dance of ecstasy
Wrapped in his own thoughts
Chained to his dreams
The master ignorant
Throttled by racks of time.
And untouched the hues lie
As the master smears the brush
With a dint of black frantically etching
Shadows on the canvas free.
Can you look out of the window
Without your shadow getting in the way?
Can you look back into the blazing lights
Without burning your eyes blind?
The Closing Bell
The mind gazed at the sky,
Both barren, blue and dry,
Not even a cloud out high,
Or a thought crossing by.
Been through such a time?
Eerily silent as a broken chime,
And the night in her hours prime
Weaving magic with her acts mime.
Just when the prologue was ’bout to end,
And the purity was ’bout to transcend,
A gust of wind had the feathers ruffled,
And, the act was enveloped in noises muffled.
The rough winds hissed in from the north,
And dragged strange fears forth
Like men concealed in the Trojan horse,
Unlocked the gates for emotions coarse
The soul wedged in the night yelled.
I, like a stunned soldier, beheld
The rummage began taking its toll
As despair massacred the timid soul
With the epilogue still to play,
And the actress distraught in the fray,
The waning moon escorted her through,
As she hid her face, her discoloured hue.
*
The war was done.
I know not who won,
Who seized the stage
Emptiness or rage.