When I kill a poem ever so silently..
Choke it’s neck without leisure
Choose to work for a penny more
Rather than feed the hungry poet’s soul
When I choose to lie back in fatigue, in laziness
And not give the words a pen to write.
My poems… killed, awaken from the dead..
Haunt me and say.. Have you sold your soul?
Your poetic soul for two pennies more..
A contract killer on hire.. Yes..
I kill poems for money now..
I faintly remember your chiseled face,
The stubble, the angles..some semblance of you
Trying to revive what I felt for you.:
Was it true? Was it all a lie to erase?
I remember our fingers entwined in a clasp, those times
Now all that remains is my rough callused hand..
The friction of holding and letting go..numerous times
Dry, unfeeling with a wart right on the fate line..my lone hand
In an ocean of Indian Chai,
In an ocean of Indian Chai .. frothy
In cups and saucers as sailboats to buoy
With teaspoons of brown sugar oars..earthy..
You and I ..on an adventure of conversations..Ahoy!
Our naked minds revealing words like cookies soaked in Chai
Chatter.. silence..All our thoughts or lack of them..
Comfortably open in an ocean of Indian Chai..
Us.. Sailing away from the world.. Forget’ em..
You , me .. willfully pause for life to stay still…
Yes .. that moment would soak in Chai