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Passing through worlds of words,
Whither his destination he knew not,
Yet, over letters and strokes he ponders,
Over promises abandoned and oaths long forgotten.
What once was a torrent, now lay dammed;
What once was his passion, now lay dead,
Crippled, choked and broken beyond recognition.
Psalms sung in euphoric moments had gone mute;
Throttled by fists of steel gloved in myriad hues.


Stories of gods felling demons, retold a million times, a million ways.
“Grampa get to the part where fire fights water!
How did they get fire trucks to the field right on time?”
Thus were born a million tales, with every retelling.
Ten headed demon in one, a daughter’s loving father in another.
Stories in paint, given new shades, long after the brush is dropped.
Saffron and green, the bullets galore, beaching creative bodies ashore.
Verses of God and the Devil mixed freely in days yonder.
And subjects captured by cartoonists instead of the other way around.


All this he thought about, his easel, staring;
Eased on it a canvas, with bloodshed, rife.
The instrument of death the right of his hand held,
Yet was it rightly handled, he never did know.
A creator of words, turned destroyer, Damocles sword on his jugular.
Swords to kill words, to save his livelihood and life too.
With every name and description an offense to one and many,
With newer dragons breathing down his neck he grimaced,
At the flock of “is” and “was” being the only non-offending words on his manuscript.

Titleless Again...

Thus was born a bird, on another moonlit night,
Shapely and clear to the sight.
Bearing you in resemblance, I called her a she;
That I could see you in her, a mirage maybe.
Breaking out of her egg, she bid adieu,
More room for her sweet sisters to follow through.
Taking baby steps she walked, marking her road,
Clouding my vision as she rode.
Elegant was her flight, as was your gait,
It was a sight worth watching all night.
Up into the trees, up amidst the leaves,
I watched as I’d watched you on several eves.
One moment in green, the next in black,
Speed was not something she did lack.
Flying off into the lofty heights, I saw in her,
The stars colouring the night azure.
Up and up she winged, not one to hover,
Nowhere to linger; no, not her, never.
It all would’ve ended well, if not for the witch,
The wicked witch Memory, who’d made a switch.
Turning the compass dial on its head,
Making up, down; and life, dead.
The bird had flown; oh it had flown alright,
But it had not flown up as a kite.
Rather as a river, in spate, all across the heartland.
Leading her sisters to drain the egg leaving it red and raw,
Setting pace for them all to cascade along the jaw.
Flying was dripping, and up was down,
The whole clouded vision had been a delusion.
All reflection of trees and stars, mere phantasm,
The reality forbidden to a weeping Adam.