“Will you walk into my parlour?”, said the Spider to the Fly,
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that you ever did spy;
Tho’ the Fly did smile, he did know the Golden rule
‘Never trust strangers’, (‘does the Spider think me a fool?’)
“I trust it’s pretty, Ma’am, but I fear I must go
To my house-my mother’s waiting for me, you know”
“Come now, dearie”, said Ma’am Spider silkily, “share with me a cuppa”,
“And later I might also fix you a little supper”.

I wish
To leave this life,
Leave it for good,
Stay away from you,
Learn to stay away from you.

A sturdy spine
Leaves mid-air;
Ink-filled veins
One of a kind.
A firm bind
Tall, dark, handsome,

Noisy my surrounding was,
Hanging like a helpless leaf I was.
Muttering sounds were in my ears.
Still wind was playing at its own gears.
Sometimes slapping; sometimes pushing,
Kissing my face unwishing.
Suddenly, came a cute smile.
As if God, Himself, shines.

Pulled up my socks, rolled up my sleeve,
I left my home with a passionate heave
Crumpled all fears, dumped them in a bin
Ahead lay a world I had to win.
On a straight road, having passed every bend,
The road ahead seemed to converge to an end
I looked back, the spectacle was the same
Dejected I wondered, was it the end of my game?
How could I go wrong on the only way?
Prayers were all that I could say

Shackles of the mind,
Love and boundless love,
The ‘art’ of missing someone,
The web of emotions,
The constant victim-hood.
How much needs to unwind,
The deep fulfilling breath,
The closing of eyes.

Enmeshed and entwined,
Hiding at the back of my mind,
Scared of the light and shine,
It’s the feeling of the darkest kind.
Even at the brink of ruffling feathers and breaking free,
It wants to stay bound,
Hidden in the abyss of my heart,
Without silence or sound.
It’s a confused feeling,

The hanging air,
And the held breath.
The perspective within
And without.
It’s about the beholder
And not the beheld.
The journey from the mind
To behind the lens,
Is that of the sight

I met him at the market.
He had come to get a bouquet.
From the distance I could see,
His pair of eyes piercing at the crowd.
I called him out twice,
“At the pinnacle of my voice. ”
Then, i saw him staring at someone
And I was happy that I was the one.
He smiled and came close,
And in his hand was a red rose.

The sign said she had come to the right place.
At home, she is always a foreigner,
And when she is away, she is always the stranger.
But the sign, here,
Said that she had come to the right place.
In her city’s marshlands,
Where humidity dampened skin
She dressed already waiting to get undressed
And hastened each beginning
Of each day.