planted a new sun

Woken in new light
I may even be alive.
The night forgone
forgotten
forgiven.

A gyrating vision
twisting twirling
- buried beneath
fading memories.

The fallout

who is to call black from white
when all you see is grey.
serpentine clouds loom
as your own work a concoction

meant to settle all that is not.

its an orchestra
of bitterness and sours
that tasted need not be
and found.

underground caverns
sound your squalid whispers that suffocate to null
before they find an ear.  Cowardice!

You were better, maybe worse
who can say?when all you see is grey.

Bottle brush reds

There’s this distinct memory that keeps flashing before my eyes.
It’s a summer evening, about thirty minutes past 5. I’m not old enough to know how to read time, but the sun is at about the place in the sky, when they said it was half past 5.

 I’m at my grand dad’s place, standing atop his boundary wall as the sun is on its way down. We stand face to face.

The end of the road glimmers at me. Black and gold. Not a sight one would forget. All while a fully loaded bottle brush tree sweeps in the warm breeze, over my head. My vest, damp with sweat that found its way trickling down my neck, from behind my ears.

And then i spot my mum riding back from work. Wearing a starched saree, that wouldn’t budge an inch, even against the warm wind. I hear that familiar sputter grow louder as she closes in on her Luna. I jump off the wall, run onto the road, get her to stop and ride into the driveway, standing on the vehicle’s foot-mat as she balances her way in.

High point of the day.