Two times the home.

Two times the home,
Stepping stone or the end?

And time picks you up like a babe just born,
enveloping you in the shards of creation.

Frequently one would pick the closest line of conversation,
and cast away the things that aren't really needed.

And the shards are plucked into gems of distinct shape and shine,
glass, mirrors, and all made of sand.

This sand will slip through your fingers, time and time again,
as you try to hold on to something, that exists.

A basic couplet.

Life is short. Life is weary. 

Life makes us sweaty and teary. 

A heavy head that falls on a pillow,

The air above us, weighing a thousand kilo.

And dreams, help us, sail across;

Cyclones and hurricanes, which aren't really a loss:

For hurdles make us stronger, and also give us a chance,

To work, improve, learn, romance. 

And what it all boils down to at night, 

is a hand to hold, a comforting sight.

And also the sound, of someone at rest. 

A lot of laughter, and you pass the test.

But it's not really easy. Is it all a choice?

Forgo ambition, and rather choose poise. 

I'm confused, as always, but know one thing for sure, 

with ego, none of us, would find the cure. 

So I guess, I'm okay, simply being me. 

What the future brings, I'll leave to destiny.

I have time at hand. I don't want to waste it. 

There's lot to explore, but I must try not to haste it. 

Change is a must, for you and me. 

Flaws must be fixed, with a frequent fee. 

Work with me, and I'll try to be good.

I'll work with you, you know I should. 

And now I shall end this silly poetry.

The interpretation will be yours, while I lie free.

Sugar.

Cube, devoid, patient with time.

Into blue water, I know this rosy texture.

Change, dissolution, to become something else.
White crumbs falling into serenity.

Here I lay, midst your creation. 

Sweetness on your tongue, for as you please.

Drop, upon drop, missing on my real reflection,

I wait for serendipity.

Not until a little of  me is left.

You decide, I have nothing more to give.

I rise from the liquid, a newer form.

Something is different. I observe myself.

A sweet moment of chaos later,

the phase, I'll call it, when I had changed,

I realize something, and it pushes me forward.

I still taste the same. Alive, sweet freshness, and that of humanity.

Words were a cigarette.

Tangled with the green umbrella.

I hear laughter, ill at ease.

Was that me? I wonder in awe.

Grey clothes. A smoke in hand.

Words are smoke, such a charm.

Thoughts trying way too hard.

At ease and calm, but the chaos hidden.

They have found a place to grow.

But no, it seems wrong.

Anger in the ashes.

The smoke's all air now.

Futile and basking in the hit that remains.

Knowing well, that it's not going to last.

Charred lungs and a moment gone.

Maybe it was worth it.

Change, it's a constant.

But my thought's, they're a blunder.

Break somthing, the inner voice chants.

Burn the lighter itself.

Wish it was possible.

Atleast I know that smoking is injurious to health.

Guess it's all for the best.

I throw the cigerette butt onto the ground.

Sparks fly.

Wish I could save it.

I stare at it for a while.

And then, I step on it.

I killed the machine.

She moves like the wind, and kisses the sun.

She moves like the wind, and kisses the sun.

Falls like a dry leaf, and laughs on the run.

She could cry like a river, and swim in its sea.

She could march across the desert sand; she could, hold the key.

Like the finger stretched, far upfront, to know where the wind blows,

Perhaps she’d try the other direction, towards the mountains where it snows.

And once there, by a little lake, she’d rest for a while.

She’d lay her camp, walk around, but all within a mile.

And under the stars, she’d lay awake, as the quiet winter blooms,

The cold would probably sting her, but she’d sleep bereft of gloom.

Come the morning, she’d stretch, ready for the day. 

She'd pack her things, leave a few, she did enjoy the stay.

Back home, to where it all started, she'd return soon.

A few old stars would be hard to find, but she would still spot the moon.

The next summer would be gone, those would be some raw sunny times.
Come autumn, she's still walking, and her story still rhymes.

Thin flames.

The fire burnt like thin flames,

engulfed within itself.

Wanting a home so bad,

locking itself in.

Guided by no air,

the lungs were left hollow.

The fire, thin, was closing,

closing in, on itself.

Those children of the moon.

Dearest Moon child,

Did I ever complain?

Those children of the moon always seemed to cripple my thoughts.

Like the straight road ahead, wandering off into streets unknown.

Did I ever ask for you to do so? 

I shook with my beliefs, and they proved them all wrong.

Whether or not, I was correct in the end.

Did I ever tell you that I don't trust you? 

I spoke of my thoughts, like those droplets of water that fall so easily.

Into the vast lake of your beliefs, they mix.

But my thoughts were lost. A silent voice, muffled by your gentle ebb.

Did I ever ask for a reason?

Why was it, that being the child of Jupiter, I was so easily moved?

The force of your nature, did nothing to me.

It was me, who chose, to be pulled by you.

But as I left my spot, a gap was certain.

Did I ever tell you how much I miss my home?

I tried blaming them, as I retrospect.

Of how the Moon children, left me drained of myself.

Of how I was lost, in the light, of those moon children.

Of how their light, kept them safely, away from my judgement.

Why would they shine so bright?

Dazzling my eyes, shielding me from the other stars that twinkle. 

Dearest Moon child, it's not your fault.

It's mine, for I let your light guide my way.

Away from home, for you, it stings.

With you, away from home, I would find peace.

Did I ever complain? 

I could never.

For miles and miles.

A quick thin slip, and a huge fall.

Gracious be the ones that hold on to you.

Never did I seek, nor do I help.

I stay for I search, the source of everything.

I wonder if I can claim, but I know I could never.

Birds are meant to fly in the sky.

My never-ending will abandons me, time and again.

Yet I am here. Always am.

Ready, to offer, that hand,

which you too, long back, had once offered me.

So I set you free, I decide.

That makes me free too.

Play, I play along. Pity, and laugh.

Smile for the weak, and cry for the strong.

Trembling fingers that try to measure the heart,

don't deserve to handle, what they cannot.

Can I say, that I have abandoned myself again?

For a while, I tell myself,

but it seems like forever.

I must stop. I can't, I know.

I resist, hold on.

If I seek the end, I'll never reach the goal.

The goal was always, to be where you are.

The moment that counts, the present, what it is.

The rest is a myth, in the mind, fabricated.

So we fly. We fly, for miles and miles.

Not knowing, scared, yet at peace, at the same time.

I spread my fingers, but my hands feel hollow.

Then I clench them, and shake my head.

It is now. I forget. The bird is out of the cage.

Thoughts.

Thoughts like water,  fall easily.

Slow, the drops, unaware, but at bliss.

There is nothing to guide, and lost are they,

the thoughts that seek, a home to return.

Questions follow the answers met.

Hopeful, but futile. An unending journey.

The kaleidoscopic world, a labyrinth.

Thoughts pulled closer, sinking in,

even as they try to break away.

Slowly.

String by string, a needle's swing, dipped and pulled - slowly.

A fine violin, the strained tune, stretching it on - slowly.

A laughter quiet, a blaring cry, shifting the spirit - slowly.

A dagger thin; stabbed in, without a regret - but slowly.

Unerring.

When trying to find solace,

the breath of light upon my face.

It’s tender feel, throughout my soul,

touch beyond, griefs console.

Light beneath the truth’s gleam.

Let alone, beyond control.

Shimmer the touch, sweet nothings,

perhaps a glow, and the lights acclaim -

to the mighty and strong - a chapter closed.

Yet it sings, the futile song.

Can you feel? Tonights pain?

The mighty light? The endless rain?

The stream shall flow, to reach its end,

light shall follow, in a gleam bent.

A fare truth, a nice game -

Perhaps you might, try again.