poems
poems
#16 in an year of mornings
poems
#5 in an year of mornings
poems
#4 in an year of mornings
poems
#3 in an year of mornings
poems
#2 in an year of mornings
poems
#1 in an year of mornings
poems
Birth, death and everything in between
Birth, and death, Death, and birth, Are either two ends of a line, Or, two points in a never-ending circle. Now way to know, to be sure. After all none have come back, From the great end. What lies in between, Is the great green expanse. Life. The one thing,
poems
Where we love
The past, is like ink on paper. Present. Permanent. Persistent. The thoughts I’d had then, Feel like a different universe now. A universe in which you would have been, In love with your work, and I would have been, Close to you, in your city. But that’s what
love
Who am I to you?
What am I to you? Who are you to me? These are the questions. Questions without ends. Beginnings, or otherwise. Infinite. Parallel. Never-ending. The who, the what of us. Who am I? What am I? What is the basis of us? It’s not that. Not the who. Or the
love
I hold you
I hold you, close to me. I push you, shove you, into the wall. I touch you, my hands on your hips. I kiss you, on your neck. I am intoxicated, with you. I am on fire, so are you. I undo your dress, The little zip at the back,
love
It's funny!
It’s funny how all poems, Which talk of love, are born of separation, solitude. It’s funny. And not. It’s funny, how, when the thing you love, Is away from you, do you really come to realise, How much you love it. It’s funny. And not. It’