Coward

Under blanket of lies
With pillow of false hopes
I lay in soft safe bed
in my rich silk robes

I check and double-check
the latch of my front door
For I have spotted Truth there
pounding with deadly roar

Earmuffs of deception
Blindfold of willing ignorance
I keep a gun by the bedside
listening to Pride I buried in dungeon

Palace of Illusions
for my small stupid joys
Truth winks from a window
I pull the drapes with shaking hands

One day I will let the truth in
and let it's cold blade slice my throat
Till then do not name me coward
for choosing slow death by poison of lies

Tea

'Tea?' I ask her, 'You make it.'

She gets up fidgeting. I hear her scrambling in kitchen. I know she has already found tea-leaves and sugar in my tiny kitchen. Yet she is opening fridge and closing it, probably in search of ginger. She has poured water in pot thoughtfully, almost measuring every drop. A hand on her hip and forefinger and thumb pressing her nosebridge, typically what she does when she is in deep thought, she takes the pot off heat and throws some water away.

I smile a little from behind curtain.

She measures two teaspoons of tea leaves and I think her fingers shake a little with anxiety as she adds sugar. A little piece of ginger as an afterthought,  she gives a stir carefully as if she is discovering some new chemical phenomenon.

Five minutes, she doesn't come back to the bedroom. She is still staring at teapot, inhaling deep.

She finally comes with two cups and hands me one, I can always feel her eyes on me- expectant, almost hopeful.

I take a sip and say, 'not bad.'

Her gaze drops a little as she slumps lazily in bed and kisses me.

I smile a little from behind my cup.

I swear to God I have not seen anyone look so beautiful making tea, as she does-
ever since I told her how my mother made the best tea in the world.

'I love you.' I hug her from behind as she walks back to kitchen with empty cups in hands.
She smiles.
'Really!' I say.
Her mind is still on tea.

Confetti

There is so much melancholy filled in scraping of legs of chairs, the way curtains fall gracefully down. Lights have turned off. Waiters are collecting empty bottles from the ground. Urgency is gone. So has gone the promise of upcoming excitement. Upbeat music is making lame attempts to hide languidity of the concluded event. They are taking down banners, winding wires and stacking them up in a corner. Liveliness has snuffed out like a weak firework that lit up the sky a moment ago.

They are cleaning up confetti from stage now.

Oh I love confetti.
I love when it erupts in the air with a blast like a colourful volcano and floats down dramatically.
I also love when a bit of its sparkle falls on my head.

When celebrations are over, I feebly hold on to glory and pick a handful of confetti and hide it in my fist.
That's what I am busy with when everyone gets to the dance floor in the end.

Retrospect

As white bougainvillea flower yet again like they do this time of year, you know it is December. The same time last year when you were old; but not old enough...

You experimented- letting life take its own course or doing something outrageous just to spring out of inaction. To your utter surprise and strange satisfaction, nothing has worked so far, has it?

Here is to all pseudo-intellectuals, who try to find meaning in life- There is NO meaning. It's just the way it is. Finding meaning is for your own narcissistic souls.

Here is to all who go enjoy life without making it complex. You are stupid! Your greed to live life is always going to make you fear pain and embrace shallowness.

As you approach year end, let me tell you, EMI of your mistakes is going to spike up a little. I hope you have enough melancholy to pay for it.

Just so you feel a little good about yourself- you are old but still not old enough.

Simple Plan

Some loved her like their cup of tea
A zest of refreshment in their boring lives
Not essential to survive
but 'good to have'

Some traced the leaf shaped birthmark on her back
Called her sexy as she lay in their beds
She could read their false feelings
in mirrors on the ceilings

Some drowning ones held on to her
Like a floating plank in the ocean
She wondered they never had an inkling
her ship has always been sinking

Some were fascinated by
blue streaks in her hair
It was the matter of time, she thought
before they called her a crackpot

Years gone by since someone knew
how she loves her tea gone cold
and since someone held her
with no intention to kiss

Someone needs to put away
the glass of wine in her hand
Someone needs to come up with a simple plan
to stop a passionate soul joining cynical clan

Mistress

There have been days all about fitting in
I captured moths
and tried to call them butterflies
because world wanted me to

Some days I gave in
and tasted bland mundanity
I thought my wings needed to be cut off
because 'everyone has to do it'

By day I wear my veil of morals
strut with legitimate titles
World grunts with a nod of approval
because finally I am normal

By night
I paint my lips scarlet
A little intoxicated
in my gittering stilettos

I knock on his door
That fair youth
from faraway land
who crushes our future with his careless gait

My moral compass licks at my ankles
like a forlorn pet
I kick it away
Dormant desire crawls under my skin

He calls me Goddess of Mess
I rise from the dead
and whisper in his ears,
'Chaos, I am your mistress...'