Crackers

They be the fire,
to every belonging of mine,
they take my things,
and set them up in a line,
to add explosives of their emotions,
they gathered with time,
they then burn everything,
they set everything sublime,

I be a mere spectator,
before a beautiful scene,
of fire and light,
of red and green,
i stand shocked,
as the blank expression on my face,
i stand rocked,
at rest at my place.

These people are my greatest enemies,
they are my casualities,
on the pathway to destruction,
they are facilities,
they live on me,
and wait untill i mistake,
then they rise like flames,
and burn the property on stake.

From standing on feet,
to kneeling on knees,
and down to kiss the earth
they explode deafening crakers,
made out of my things,

Lady in dilemma

Stands on the verge of the cliff,
with the patience fragiled over time to fall for,
and the unconquerable love to stand by,
ever has she been faced with this dilemma,
that what does life has on offer tommorow?

She often plans a suicide,
when the love is stabbed repeatedly,
by no one but her own,
she plans a suicide then,
instantaneous impulse of anger makes her run towards the edge,
but she drinks in everything,
adding poison to the heart,
when all her interia is absorbed by the love again,
her feet are grounded by the love again,
to her misery, both the reasons of her happiness,
lie in alternative worlds, both separated,
one brings her too close to her passions, that it hurts,
one takes too far away to be happy,

She quitely observes the passage of time,
the rise of the sun and the fall of the dusk,
in the utter silence , she admires her child, 
regaining all his innocence tht he had lost screaming at her,
when he had lit himself into flames of anger,
burning love out of her,
she admits to this serene moment,
the compromise she does everyday.

its the dilemma of the lady,
to live for love or to die because of it,
to end worldly matters at once,
or end the pain for who matter the most,
she, on her way to a polite answer,
on her way to a confident decision,
keeps on dragging herself forth.

Coins and Bills

coins and bills are looked at with suspicion,
as if determinants of one's destiny and fate,
jealous hands have often driven,
themselves into the prison of greed and hate,
abiding by this belief,
money hides an evil in brief..

money aint any lust,
its neither even a drug,
that lulls noble persons,
and converts them into thugs,

money is the bridge over the deadly river,
a pathway to dreams,
sounds good to the believers,
and a dilemma to the mean,

its the value of his work,
and of the every other thing,
a man would ever desire,
to the point where thoughts retire,

the ability to attain, retain and consume,
of things thought and sought,
by simply giving the measure of times, the floor has to be broomed,

its not responsible, its still material,
rests at a place without moving,
untill the hands latch for it,
in the utter belief of insanity,
because there is still one penny less in the vanity,
of the needy who turned greedy...

Still Life

it does talk,
it speaks loudly, sometimes even screams,
its not only a collection of colours, its someone's dreams,
clicked at all those moments,
when the situation had demands of being preserved,
smiles, body, landscapes have been reserved,
into a motionless but not lifeless, memory that the sole purpose of remembrance, serves
records of those times, slowly fade away in mind,
just when it comes before sight,
so many things spill out of the still, yet so bright,
the smile widens and the eyeslids drop down a bit,
the whole incident's fragments, now find a place in the fit,
the faces deliberately bringing out a subtle expression, or posing like an animal gone wild,
"see its me, oh gawsh its me!!" now you are excited like a child,
seems amazing how have inanimate objects, came togethor and rendered emotions to the image file

Time kept illusions

how precious is the movement of the clock in these moments,
if I only say the truth, its chasing my pulse,
the world has been long forgotten,
in this lust and want of being near to you,
but as I speak, the needle is hurrying up,
while contemplating into your eyes,
it comes to such a stop, that I am unable to look away,
but I am pulled back by the needle again,

Then when I take your hand for no reason and rest it with mine,
there's no other pleasure defined by this love,
this love, pouring out and dissolving into the air,
yes, I can breathe it,
its foggy out here now, such dense feelings of compassion,
neither the clock is visible, nor the needle,
like they have accepted to merge in this fog,
I can only feel your hand,
smooth slippery seamless surface,
and I release myself to this feeling,
but with just a faint cling of the cuttlery,
I come back to me and sip down the last few ounces of grief,
before I put your image back into my wallet,
and lay restless untill dawn.