Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The passing night air
stirred the potpourri
of fragrant dreams.
Songs of cricket in dark bushes,
the soft hum of rustling leaves.
The night stood still
with its dark hair disheveled,
the silence held captive
in its flagrant folds.
The moon dropped silver coins
into her begging bowl,
with barbed discretion.
Last night You wrote your sonnets in Braille: the commas, parenthesis, Ellipses... engraved perfectly on my skin- and I w...
I was the odd one out. The spaced out, mixed up kid. Never really fitting into anything or with anyone. Often I felt alienated i...
Someone asked me recently if my novel ‘ Meshes of Smoke’ is M y life story. No. It is not. But it is the story of life. ...
Getting up with that familiar feeling. The unnamed, meaningless sadness. Like snowflakes falling inside. And huddled under a thick ja...