Works of RK

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

I have looked at myself From the edges of reason And discovered That both my sanity and insanity Springs forth like seasons Out of my distances from you. Realizing thus I have allowed the outer rims Of my diffused sanity To fritter away into crumbs Of misplaced memories From my time with you. I have often found myself being unreasonable When I am away from you. And generally insane When otherwise.

When I was young, maybe 10 or so, I remember jumping from the attic box-room to the floor below. In my mind, I was a superman, and this could be achieved. The excruciating pain that followed reminded me that Superman also experienced pain when trying to achieve extraordinary feats! It was only yesterday that I lifted you off your feets and swung you around, your hair forming a circle in my little room. I love the shreik of surprise that you let out, and the tantrums you throw when I don't put you down. I would love to do this with you all my life. That hint of a sprain in my lower back tells me that the Superman is still alive in me, it's just that you, probably, you should hit the gym more often.

It was probably the moustache That attracted the fly This was probably the last time He would be buzzed And the first time That he would not know. There was a lot of white The drapes, the sarees, the cotton With which his toes and the thumbs Were tied. When you are dead I guess these things don't matter The color, the flies and the incense That invades the nostrils Until you feel heady With his death. When you are dead I guess you are Probably just dead And it's different From just not being alive.

I can snuff you out Like a cigarette butt But the smoke that gets into my eyes And the nicotine that stains my heart Will eventually Kill me.