The Game

Empty roads and a lonely corridor
A weary seagull that flies no more
Gloomy afternoon by the river side
The clouds, where the moon tries to hide

Things will not be the same
 And I was lurking around in shame
This world we cannot tame
Cause we all are a part of the game

 Running down where the rivers echoed
The trail of tears that was often savoured
The crumbling sound of broken delusion
Rants of a vicious mind with a rabid vision

Things will not be the same
 And I was lurking around in shame
This world we cannot tame
Cause we all are a part of the game


A trembling sense of menace
Chasing shadows of sun rays
Faded colour of a spurned leaf
Whiffs of smoke at the shunned cliff

Things will not be the same
 And I was lurking around in shame
This world we cannot tame
Cause we all are a part of the game

Musings of a Self-Proclaimed Impostor

My mind is like a forsaken, dark empty vessel
often sets off in cruelty and trepidation
you call it severe dementia
you apprise me of all my misdemeanour
the stain in the bed sheet reminds you of all the lives that I have murdered

My body is like a swamp which you tried to thoroughly drain
It's an impassable venture for any previous conviction
It's a weird concoction of monsoon clouds under a bright autumn sky
sometimes it's that minute patch of brown soil in a large green field

My soul is like the stool I am trying to release for the past couple of hours
It's a poignant reminder of self-consciousness
a disarranged cluster of deceased minds
a strange force leading to unsolicited convolutions
or an abandoned silence trying to make love to emptiness

But you were smitten by this unsightly wanderer
Taken aback by my timely  crafty smile
along with quintessential articulation
failed to keep a track of my clandestine footsteps
As I refused to remove my hallucinatory mask

I've Heard the Silence Cry

A yellowed sheet and a fountain pen
The chugging sound of an empty train
Staring out at the winter rain
The sombre sky is in a lot of pain

You're a troubling sun that makes me squint
also a border river where I'd live in a tent
And I'm alone but I can't deny
I have heard the silence cry

You're an autumn's lovely breeze
you're the fire that refuses to cease
you're clad in a tattered gown
and you gaze at me with an eerie frown

You're a troubling sun that makes me squint
also a border river where I'd live in a tent
And I'm alone but I can't deny
I have heard the silence cry

What happens to our poems when we die?

They become a carcass for the ravens to feed on
or a long forgotten loner on the streets of kolkata
may be an origami at the corner of the table that was often ignored
a smile at the corner of a poor man's lips that's often overlooked

the verses take a walk down the memory lane
to the time when they were born
When the sheet smelt of fresh ink
murmured the chorus in symphony

some of them were born from a deceased mind
some were the flowers over a worn out soil
quite a few were a young child's dreams
the ones that were always undercover were about his ladylove

the wind and dust caressed the mind and soul
rustled like a juvenile's swaying skirt
but it did not want to be ridiculed and torn apart
but it was soon yanked into the void

Do they squabble over their master's loss?
do they cry silently and read themselves out as loudly as they can?
or are they happy to be lost travellers like unfettered holy spirits in the hills
What happens to our poems when we die?