The Ephemeral Bonds' Plight...

Ambiguous are the fortunes of those,

who share an ephemeral bond,

carrying feelings in depths of oceans,

yet the span of a shallow pond...

this bond is but an escape from reality,

which judges such bonds to be an innocent fantasy

it is their yearning to flee from the clutches of this world,

only to devour their paradise's self providing ecstasy.

The conventions limited by their wits and comforts

ask them to give this "bond" an approve worthy name

not all bonds need names they wonder , as this is not of this world too

then why the need of labels to seek society's false fame...

Reality is but a cruel foe,

possessing the arsenals of time to intervene

reminding them of the predicament of today

of tomorrow's consequences and paths unseen...

the time part ways, eventually arrives,

how does it happen, I wonder,

for even if a fantasy, it's beautiful and tempting

too keen let in the present, making the present ponder..

the changes in them that we perceive 

after returning to reality's abode..

different paths from their desires they receive,

like a river towards an ocean their lives have now flowed..

Ambiguous are the fortunes of those,

who share an ephemeral bond,

carrying feelings in depths of oceans,

yet the span of a shallow pond...

The Portals within my Headphones

Plugging in my headphones, to go back in time

when Lucky Ali's mellifluous voice 

gave the ultimate feeling of wanderlust

when Shaan reminded how life is a path

where we all stroll in our solidarity

when KK with his colors of nostalgia

reminded us of matured friendships and naive romances

the vikings of Bombay were exquisite in pouring

old wines in new bottles, yet inebriating us

the feeling that came with the ballads of that band

coinciding with what they called themselves, Euphoria

when neighbors too were adept in pulling the "Strings"

that thrill of looking at the stars of today, in songs of past

making us realize the elusive illusion in the speed of time 

the meanings of those soulful verses and ghazals heard then

have rendered us wise in this turmoil we call modern times

ethereal is this world of nostalgia, it may be eternal too

as long as my ears and memories keep exchanging

these symphonies now coated with the golden adoration

not just the pathway to the vintage times they are

portals too, reminding me the evolving life which this is....

The Sabbatical of an Artist

The decline of a hobby, so passionate

to a duty, so monotonous is heralded

when the artist basks in to glory of mediocrity.

The unsatiated mind feels the fall steeper,

when thoughts embellished on paper 

transgress from enlightenment to mere illumination.

Like a deer running in the wilderness, his mind

as the predatory fear of oblivion chased it

not letting it graze on the pastures of its own creation.

Hence fame, hoarded like a treasure abundant

yet impoverished of sanity to stay in its embrace for long

as the ghosts of envy and illusioned pressure of peers leered on him.

The artist's art is known to flood the mind with dopamine

but when it precipitates into unwanted endorphins

is when the artist fled to the tranquil solidarity.

There the artist discovered the artist sans his art

for creation has pathways beyond comprehension

and this art was nothing but a lane among millions

To discover that his art was a mere speck of what he was

to rejuvenate the mind of all the prejudice and exhaustion

imperative was this sabbatical, to not abdicate,

his yearning to create, for he is and will be, an artist.

 

A Part of Me, A Part of her

Of all the regrets in this very life

the easiest one i assumed to posses

was the one where i could not profess

smile and greet, was all i could muster

for she was seldom alone

always to be found in a cluster.

waiting for her inside her class

to only cherish, her fleeting glance,

for there was indeed something about her

that sent me to an addictive trance

the hormones of maturity went up a dose

the rhymes thus take a backseat

and here comes the prose..

my lips in my impulsive adolescence

would seldom open in front of her

and now in my exuberant youth

they hardly pull their curtains to breath

but she sin't there with me to listen

to laugh to hold hands to take a stroll

"It was an infatuation, get over it"

my friends would say for me to move on

but like me they seemed unaware too

of the infamous and treacherous art of love..

for it lets other feelings come in it's guise

and when it decides to come, it borrows,

the garb of those very "other feelings"

fighting all the baseless inhibitions

that were fed to me from society's venomous breast

the rhyming innocence went up a notch

for meeting her felt like another fiery test.

but the moment i laid my eyes on her

i sensed a feeling that was morbid

for the rustling of pleasant winds

suddenly sounded like the cawing of crows

the innocent rhyming died again

making way for the observant prose..

she maintained a poise so formal

familiar to "the wall" cold as ice

her laugh now lacked that childlike cackle

the warmth of which melted my heart back then

her aura, which then seemed so welcoming

now seemed to detest the presence

of even my shadow on her periphery 

while parting ways, a tear escaped with strain

not to lament the failed prospect of love

but to mourn the death of her innocence

for it was indeed a part of her 

that drowned in the tides of life

and now in the tomb of innocent memories

i now pay my respects, as i lay down

the flowers of my remembrance

for this world is indeed a graveyard

where every death was once just a birth

if anything a known fact this truth is,

but in this bridge of birth and death

lies a truth hideous than imaginable

that life in its own right is a graveyard too

possessing the buried corpses 

of the ones whom we used to be

of which now we are just mere fragments

the buried tombs are now called memories

where at leisure i visit to seek

a part of me, a part of her.....