When the poets will Walk the wailing leaves Brown and crisp, Fill their blank pages with black, I will choose Cafe Dreamonic, Snug-fitted at some remote corner of the city, Order our favourites, just to get it cold, A ruse to sit and talk……
I will not mind the surround cacophony, Shallow laughters, energetic supersonics, Hushed murmurs — the perfect background score to our confab,
Then in sometime, The sun will leave our table And moon may not arrive But the stars will lead us In a backdrop of that blue-buttered Celestial spread, just like movies,
When they will be busy Shaping ghouls of an innocent fruit, playing karaoke with the dead, It will be cold outside and you will lend me your coat, Drop me by my door and forget To take it back — remembering A ploy to come back again
Just like movies….
You are the anti-aging cream I am yet to buy, Maybe I never will… The mirror looks at Supple inside, stroked tenderly with unprocessed Shea….
I try to get up but my knees create moments silent, No. It’s nothing new.
My bones have lost their tongue, The tongue can’t chew its teeth, I may spill my coffee, spoil your dress, Not find a scarf to cover my embarrassed face,
But it’s nothing new. I felt like forty when I was twenty, So either I never got up Or never grew,
You can see…
Time moves propitious, Burning fragrance of remembrance, Chill bordering the warm petals Which never wither below that sheet of ice —
Last Winter. This Winter. Every Winter.
All restless moments put to sleep, In my world of dreams and the Poetics of it…..
Imagination is not a talent of some men, but is the health of every man-Ralph Waldo Emerson
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