A Sense of Yearning

Today, it is someone else. Through the thick curtain Timothy watches His mother, building his future. The man should slow down, he thinks Maybe a little less rough, like the night, But he goes on; And Timothy looks away. He should act asleep, he knows But the silhouettes dance like demons Over the young eyes full of questions. The lantern flickers its flame, but Fails to hide the dark. Timothy picks up a crayon, and thinks How to colour the demon on his sheet; 'Will I put a smile?' he thinks, and then Comes another muffled scream from behind The curtains; Yes, a smile is needed, he decides. The sheet is soiled, but he does not mind. The man moans, sighs, and stands up While Timothy wonders What this final sigh is about; The man walks out; Yes, a smile is needed. Timothy draws a broad one on the face Of his demon, and looks at his sheet 'Shouldn't there be many heads?' he thinks When his mother comes and sits by his side; Her lips bleeding,...

"I watch my daughter place the flowers Over me; wipe a tear, and smile; The smile, more effulgent than the flowers, Lingers on; The smile matters; The smile that can alter the scent of death. Not a Sunday she has missed, ever; Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit By me, and talk about the love of her life And smile demurely; I wish she knew I listened to her; I wish she knew how I Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks; I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into The bosom of womanhood; I am just Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears; Death is the finality; This I had known and believed; The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness; But in death did I realise the worth of living; And that none in the world mattered, but The ones who call me back.” “My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be Too asleep to watch you run your fingers Over the name of your father; I see the same moon, the same stars In the...

The woman beckoned to the phantasmal apparition That stood by her bed, watching in pity, her weary eyes In desperate need of a long sleep sans the anguish; She looked at him, and a smile broke its way out From the vicious corners of her horizon-less world; In the ghostly figure she searched frantically For the pair of eyes that had once housed The promises, the cures, and an enormous castle of sand; But darkness was all that stared back. The woman pulled the blanket down, and looked At her son, by her side, asleep in the shade of tranquillity. The silhouette bent over his son, and the woman Felt a soft puff of cold breath kiss her skin. And then from within the shadow of a man once alive Came the  whisper, in a voice awfully bruised, "I wanted to watch him grow." His fingers reached the woman's teary eye, but All he could do was pull more tears out; Only then did his eyes fall upon his medal; The medal of honour, they called it; It lay on the table Wi...

As I variegated the lazuline sky with a rainbow And painted the greens of the lush plantations I watched you, my better creations, joke and laugh While you were washing the colours off my canvas. Your ideas have become the grunge, which Now smiles all over my crimsons and blues. Oh, for whom did I paint this earth, child? Why did I induce the fire of reason in you? Can my tears ever absolve your sins, or Cleanse my anguish off my ripped flesh? Say who is, if you aren’t my own child? I don't want you to crown me a halo of lies , But sit and weep a little with me tonight, will you?

In the face of suffering she was longanimous. By the river she sat, embracing her agony And waited for the little boat to emerge, like The demure bee from within the beauteous petals. Her impregnable belief to see him, on the boat, Waving at her, made her roots go deep. She waited for the tides to run quiet and calm For just one day; and the skies to shine like her hope; Her young heart aged by the river, counting Ripples from every pebble she threw; but it was A river; ripples seemed to be in their usual rush. Summer changed to winter, winds turned cold; Leaves grew impatient and kissed the moist earth. She grew old waiting, but the boat was still a dream. The curtains were undulating, asking her to get up; And saying that maybe the land was too far; Or maybe the tides were too fast; The truth her eyes bled at the thought of was The boat was never destined for a homecoming; Neither was her wait destined to see an end;  Perhaps the boat...

Through the quiet of the night walked the three men; Three they were, and a hundred patient trees, who Watched them try to pour fresh colours Into the quiescent melancholy within the greens. Melodic phrases they hummed with strange avidity; Songs which they sang were full of life; But the night was already quiet, cold and dead. The lonesome grass reeds embraced their music Like the cheek of a mother welcomes her tears, And somehow thanked the three strange men In a voice soaked in painful inaudibility. The men were aloof from the deceptions The world out there offers aplenty, with a smile; And so were those trees, who watched the world Burn to ashes, and the creations of the Almighty Soil their souls and the souls of others, Reducing to dust too heavy for the Earth to carry. But that night was the night they had longed for For that night, the men who had remembered the trees Were men who sang songs, gifting soporific euphonies; Men who had flutes in their hands, an...

It was a November night, cold and silent When the small cube of ice saw the candle; Cold he was, amongst a few other cubes Lying in insouciance, waiting for the glass. And there on the table stood the candle, Tall and firm, in bewitching beauty... She was burning all alone in patience. Everything besides her was benighted But there was light in her, around her; And her wax gleamed like the divine skin Of a Goddess, under the light of her halo; The cube of ice heard a small sound... A heartbeat? But he had always been so cold; Cautiously he moved out of his tray Responding to the pull by the candle On the invisible but strong thread. He got awed by the glistening of himself As he went nearer, and nearer still; "That's enough," cried the candle. The ice stopped and felt a beat, again. "You are a beauty, my flame," he said. The fluttering candle smiled; And the flame reddened and looked down. "I can't fee...