The painted veil

Next time let me be a wind chime in a tree

So that I will have some other ambition rather than being free

The new me, won’t be afraid of passing time

Nor your absence from my decaying life

Still I will have the freedom to sing your song when I want to sing

And when someone asks me about my achievements in life

I will not have to look through my resume

And yet I can proudly tell how the raindrops taste like

What are heartaches made of?

And why did Monalisa smile?

Festival of Insignificance

Last drops of this night, flowing through this vein

Thinking of something and yet saying something else

Heart yearns for your words even after we say ‘goodbye’

And as I walk back home, trying to remember things unsaid

Who knows when all this begins or when all this ends

No one can know the concrete shape of things

When the hand shivers before the knife strikes the heart

Love was all that can be in shivering of your hand

All through our lives, we keep running, trying to give meaning

How simple it seems, yet it is not

To define things and yet to keep them unexplained

What is this life, nothing but festival of insignificance 

Use of being

What is that longing called, to find one’s use in scheme of things?

To be a cause of someone’s laughter and excuse for your existence

What is those bundle of feelings are called

A mix of anger, jealousy, affection and anticipation

Which come and go as you count the seconds during heart’s deprivation

Those memories which you create of things happened and imagined

Impervious to circular time

What is that obsession to find meaning in things ?

And believe that what is unsaid may not necessarily be unknown

Is there a line beyond which our stories merge together?

Or is it just the immortal time making fun of mortal illusion