quid pro quo

an exchange of glances
probing an insight
to what seemed known
into the strangest of eyes

a refreshing perception
through cocky observations
in return for a spell
commonly viewed as an oracle

words were traded,
facts were vouched
promises were beheld
as the pulse unanimously fused

a communion had begun
uninvited and disguised
like an active militant
gauged in his dainty form

while the thoughts fought
in gardens of attraction
we germinated, what emerged priceless
in our little quid pro quo

a find

before my words dried up,
i grabbed you
like a falling star
while you remained
a static moon
ever so exhuberant,
in your cold lambency.

you brought this mirror
back it's glory
carving your image
in hues of pale yellow
and you call yourself
colourblind
(how did you feel red then?)

today i walk with you
spotting the berry
and the goose
gyrating in a sense
of belonging
as i enunciate
to have found my muse.

i preserve

do you read my silence?
because these days i only converse with me.
it's a chauvinistic thought, but i can relate with only a handful of you, partly because of my obliterated progression(i only grow diagonally these days). Like a buzzing sound in my ear at the night-time, which has no apparent reason to occur.and majorly because of my heightened sense of selectivity in choosing thoughts to construct words.
mediocrity irks me,and society thrives on 'commonness' which transverses into gang rape of individuality.
My mind is not well-stimulated to make an initiative to talk to you. my growing disinterest in life is because of lack of a suitable muse.

where have all the daisies gone?
or a burning blue sky
a quivering hand to hold
at the sea-side.

i reach out to find you
in my altered state of appearance
they call 'invisibility'
and i call it sub- conscious being

My plight is that of an unheard cuckoo, trying to wake up humanity through it's meticulous monologue. Over time I'm losing faith in communication, because the essence of it lies in the fact that the sender and the receiver lie on the same line. the line of thought.
i redeem myself everyday from the clutches of mankind, so grossly proper in their ways and manner.

so here i leap into my zone of nothingness, with a hope of construction and a voice to express
i preserve.


a song which attempts to describe my state:

all around me are familiar faces
worn out places
worn out faces
bright and early for the daily races
going no where
going no where
their tears are filling up their glasses
no expression
no expression
hide my head i wanna drown my sorrow
no tomorrow
no tomorrow
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
children waiting for the day they feel good
happy birthday
happy birthday
and i feel the way that every child should
sit and listen
sit and listen
went to school and i was very nervous
no one knew me
no one new me
hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
look right through me
look right through me
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
enlarging your world
mad world

the leaf and the dew

quivering in it's chill.
the last dew
of the early dawn
adores the leaf and hates it too

as much as it seeks,
her effortless caress,
the droplet fears
a loss of identity, a loss of life

for one hustle,
is it all it takes
to shed a tear
in it's falling self

trust no protection,
it bears the greatest danger
it when the strongest of bonds
weaken your strength

breaks away the dew
this time from her home
before the leaf corners it,
in her invitation to death