Clichés and gestures

Clichés and gestures

As free a soul as she may be
With a few she aspires trysts
As unfettered her mind may be
With some she remains prejudiced

As resurgent her self-respect may be
She shuns it to please one in a million
As much as her self drives her decisions
With some, she gladly takes the pillion

As cringe-worthy she finds banalities
She does cherish a quixotic gesture or two
For she may have built her own into a fortress
Her tunnels are still open to a few



I talk not of my past
Nor of the time I currently live in,
I talk of you, oh, dear golden fifties,
Ye good old, olden times!

I revere your simplicity
Your telephone sets, wires and teacups
Your wallpapers, gardens, the air you bore,
Ye good old, olden times!

I know you think I kowtow to you,
Fawning over your superficial designs,
But I speak, in essence of the bold you,
Ye good old, olden times!

As I sing praises of your apparent ease of transition
Your pursuit of hardships, testing or benign,
The historic struggles you successfully fruitioned,
Ye good old, olden times!

I adore the power of love you bestowed in man,
Capable of stringing onto hope, through letters simplistic,
I aspire to be a beloved in your reign,
Ye good old, olden times!

I yearn the peace of mind you gave,
The unadulterated, enunciated words you made speak,
I yearn for bespeaking you first-hand,
Ye good old, olden times!

Dear Fear

Dear Fear

Of night, you say “stay put”
Of day, you say “beware”
Of stairs, you say “don’t skip”
Of machines, you say “might impair”

Of dawn, you say “wait for the sun”
Of sun, you say “shade, shade”
Of shade, you say “it’s dark”
Of light, you say “eyes! Please fade!”

Of life, you say “nurture for future”
Of future, you say “run”
Of love, you say “painful”
Of hate, you say “shun”

Dear fear, you’re so contradicting
Nevertheless attached to my fate
Hence, I personify you
As like human, you build, you extirpate

Kohl soul

Kohl soul

Her hands unravel her pencil
Her mood slates its course
Her shivers design the outlay
The filling decided by her force

With her, through times gay and saint
Winged, thick or thin
With her, through times hard and faint
Unmatched, diluted or brimming

Her eyes wake up to the morn
Her eyes, to her kohl
In black and hues aplenty
And her kohl, to her soul

Slump Pump

It’s days like these
These days that make you sore
Days where the Sun hurts
But the shade also bores

It’s days like these
These days that stir the mind into a curry
Days when the routine is brimming with activity
Still your heart finds time to worry

It’s days like these
These days when every single element of your life seems tangled and tossed
Days when the mind runs a million miles an hour
You feel worthless; all feeling is lost

It’s days like these
These days that throw you a rope
That if you can emerge alive, though bruised,
There’s still hope