Poem Of A New Year!

A half naked woman, in her late twenties
There she stood with scratches, waiting for me
In the lawn, waiting for a magic.

A part of a true story.

In the shadow, a shivering movement of limbs
Another dismantled stretcher, and a crying daughter
In my lap, a pillow of her bosoms.

Another true story.

A window with a torn curtail
A door without lobs
And a passage of torn letters;
The house couldn’t interpret the pain
The half naked pregnant woman carries.

This is my poem of a new year,
True stories of heartless despairs.

Death Fragrance!

It’s hard to follow the whims insane
It’s hard to understand the rhetoric lies
But the fragrance of livelihood,
And the certain evidence on inhibition;
They all come in hordes
While I am dying!

Like a routine,
I return to my four-walled rented room
Anytime I wanted to return home;
Certain fragrance draws me there
And I wish to call it my home.

Like a die hard habit,
I breathe my soul, in and out
Every time I wanted to feel alive;
The exhilarating gasp in the mouth
And I wonder about this life.

Not to be taken seriously,
I was not happy doing the rounds, of a life
Breathing, eating, sleeping
All I wanted was to smell the life, and
Lost in its fragrance.

Diagnosis!

That day, I wore nothing but a thin layer of skin
And they put me through a machine
The machine sucked my soul through little veins
And they call hope in practice.

And amidst the duel
I observed a funny exercise
And they called it Diagnosis!

My beloved, who wore a sub-routine make-up;
She murmured and touches my breath,
Her tender palm in my rippled chest
And few drops of tears,
And I thought,
We have a lifetime to copulate.

The machines
They stoop so low
They devise all fickle mechanisms
And there, I was a pig
A dirty pig
A snorting pig;
A pig through the machine
And the conclusion was a pretentious hope.

The machine and me and the diagnosis;
My weary skin couldn’t care less,
Except for a hope:
Besides my body,
She stood tall!