Works of RK

In the translucent wobble of my memory I see a familiar face fleeting by. Barely a moment And then the ripple of pain distorts What this eternal lake remembers. From Tim's BLOG

Can I stand tall In the face of this all As if it were my life And it were my battle And my hell Full of my favorite daemons In my own closed attic rooms, Alleys and corridors? Can I call to this Yagn All the angels and the Gods And all the Patriarchs From the abode of the Old? Can I stand tall In the face of this all As if it were my life? I close my eyes And I can see you sulking through Shoulders drooping Eyes no longer ablaze Your soul tired From battling all this All alone.. I can I Can.

Sometimes,  life drums itself into a crescendo. The high notes bleed you and the low notes depresses you  When you decide to change your skin You realise that you got it all wrong! You will hurt  Your loved ones will hurt  And you will see red,  Everywhere.  Who ever told you,   That it will be easy Lied to you.  Whoever told you That it will be tough Lied to you too. Nobody outside of you Will ever have a clue.  And if you pull through Whatever you go on to become May or may not be What you ever wanted to be. A puppet on strings invisible As you dance to your present death Everybody else out there Is just watching you And probably Having fun. 

I don’t want to be here anymore The ageing paint and the dripping taps The fading chairs and the dirty Oven That now no one cares for Reminds me of you Their hellos, their smiles, And the way they look at me as I walk in And walk out Alone Burdens my soul… I don’t want to be here anymore And I don’t want to be there Where the table you sat on is And the plate I served you in Is Where an old safety pin Sits next to a lock of your hair And a book of mine From a time I do not now Remember I don’t want to be there anymore Not here Not there.

The dawn was breaking across the horizon. I could see crimson orange streaks of sunlight getting scattered in the morning mist. This was the time she generally got up and walked to the kitchen. The time when, with ruffled hairs and a wrinkled nighty, all dark and broody, she would look out of the balcony and breathe in another day. A day that would be broody or cranky or happy, depending on what mood she woke up with. The Sunlight that streaks across the clouds of an oncoming monsoon would also be shining down her windowpane just now. Just now, she would also be looking up at the sky. Just now, she would also be alive in some other part of the world, thinking about everything but me. I watched the sun hang in there for a moment, as if asking of me to move ahead and stop thinking about her. And then I stopped thinking about her, and the day moved on.

  In the little lies I tell myself Lying awake late into nights Between sheets as cold As your last remembered gaze I find myself thinking about you In endless hellish loops. Wind in your hair The Sun in your eyes The gloss, the glitter And the sudden burst Of laughter... And then everything Turns bitter If only there was one Death Like the last blip  On a matrix like screen And then N.o.t.h.i.n.g...

These Tribal colors are alluring. Bright reds interlaced with dark of the greens. The beads, the shimmer of coarse native silk and the anticipation of making a sale, in Pinky Das' eyes! Madam will be very happy, she said. The stole will go well with the beads . I keep buying stuff Imagining That someday you will walk in And ask for them. I keep living Forgetting That the leather case from last year And the mustard silk batik from last month Remain cocooned in their shells Awaiting redemption From their misery Of being with me.

I looked at the rampage on the pages. Words scribbled in search of redemption And stricken off by sins of despair. Surely, this is not the promised road to Elysium. Nothing would grow Out of these half bled out pages and an ancient pen. I have to go out into the world and seek my redemption. - - - - These open windows Let streaks of sunlight drift in Reeking of her light

The earth is so withered  From its longing for you The reeds of your memories Have shriveled dry and bled Into parchments of forever tales. Now my dear, There will no longer Be any death for you

When it was time for her to go, it was also time for me to let go. Once an irritant is washed out, they say you can start seeing better immediately. All that stupid tears and all that rubbing of the soul, until your eyelids would cry out, no more, no more.  And then, just like that, one fine day, I wake up, and she was gone.   As the train chugged out The tracks cried out in senseless creaks of half despair Hear the poem here