Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Pheromone Trail

Whispers roam in the streets like bits of paper
In a breeze that sweeps across
The faces turn around at the sudden hush
Of an unsaid word, resuming their routine
With a questioning nod, and a brooding silence
Prevails like after effects of this unfamiliar silence
Which echoes and is echoed back.
The ants continue their toil
On a pheromone trail which guides them
On an invisible route and leads them to their destination
And we men are lead too by our fates
Like these unseen lines that are drawn across
Our lives and crisscrossing with others’
A familiar face is surrounded by strangers
In its home land where its own territories
Are out of bounds and marked by the piss
Of carnivores whose grins project their canines
And instill fear in the meek lambs who bleat fearfully
And the ants continue their journey
On that pheromone track
And the familiar faces continue to be surrounded
By all the more strange faces
And we men continue to be lead by our stars
And keep on crisscrossing the lines
The territories continue to be marked by the hot piss
And the lambs continue to bleat meekly
With their wooly skins waiting
To be torn down by the hungry hounds
But the bits of paper are sucked up into a whirlwind
And so do the whispers tear into screams
And the faces turn around again
To hear the said words, leaving their routine
With unquestioning statue-like heads
In this pandemonium where after it breaks
Into sobs absorbed into patience
And the ants run helter-skelter too
Some one erased the pheromone trail.

The Voice of Silence

There are moments when I hear
An inaudible silence in its aphonic tone
When someone speaks to me
And there is none around save me.
The words are harsh, sarcastic
Which purge me down to my soul
And lay me bare before some unseen mirror
Where I see my infirmities, naked,
Like scars scathing and raw
And my nostrils fill with a stench
As some secret scalpel dissects me
And I gasp for breath
And this asphyxiation pulls me out of the reverie
…….am I my own foe?

Deceiving Dreams

Of late some dreams haunt the sleep
As ruins by some obstinate ghosts
Through the cobwebbed crevices who peep
And flicker like shadows around lamp posts.

Of frail promises of future, they haunt
As past days relived in a better way
And attainment of an insatiable want
And change misery to a prosperous day.

Like the early spring blossoms of peach
Our dreams emerge from the dark and cold
Some eager eyes from beneath beseech
To pull off the dark and such like fold.

Alas! but these Morpheus’ creations
Are too frail are too weak
The ways that lead to no stations
Traveler, wherefore such things you seek?

Of course do our little dreams start
Like a little trickle of a little stream
That grows on with every beat of heart
And again ends, again in a dream.

The Addict's Lament

The piercing needle pricks
On pretence of providing joy
The fire rampages, tricks
Goes up the vein I enjoy
Visions unseen, hallucinations
And roam in my own creations

I kill myself for my joy
On a potent poison I thrive
Unlike men who others destroy
Spill blood, kill and burn alive
Why then am I kicked?
Just ‘cause I am an addict!

Thoughts in a Graveyard

Shrouded in some fear
Of a latent claustrophobia
Oh! The grave dark and deep
While some in some merriment
Think of having a long sleep
Yet Grim in his dreadful grin
Smiles…. may be!

The leaves fall with the autumn breeze
And petals drop one by one
Shriveled by the coming winter’s frost
Oh the times steps, slow, at ease
Yet with a pace always at a run
Unending and at what cost!

Slow and steady
Like in some eternal hourglass
The sand empties itself
Into some hillock of a past
To be there for ever.


Like newspaper clippings pasted
Into a graffiti,
Silhouettes of past, dimmed
In the foreground of now-a-days
The cries for peace are muffled in the din,…
Pessimistically optimistic,
Yet the sighs go on.
The utopian dream is a nightmare
Snatching everybody’s sleep
In the middle of the night
Still I wake up late ….
The morning news tells
How many died yesterday!