confabulation

a song, somnolent. the moon, 

wistful. 

a wind, flagrant, redolent of 

the leaves

pale, plucked off,

sail down. down.

a song, atremble.

the moon reminisces 

of the nights,

starlit.

the moon 

fumbles a night, a song, 

a tremolo.

refrains

“.. inebriated words do not tread on a straight path” he doled out those words as he kept his glass of wine the round base of which fused with a slender stem he has been holding in his long fingers, and above a vertical expanse of a red liquid with mild hues of rust, same as the color of his lips, was swaying a moment ago; a speck of the stubble on his face glowed for a fleeting second, and as he repeated his words, demurely, the crow’s feet were visible again with tens of moons in his eyes.

seafaring

the sun is forever remote.

clouds ramble only in the night. 

a moon intones a story 

of a sea.

the biography of a metaphor


the silence finds solace 

in the trembling of leaves. 

a song sleepwalks,

traverses a heart. 

corners of the sky 

are dogeared. 

he breaks the strings. 

they etch star trails. 

a fugue ruffles. 

the trembling (of the heart) 

seeks refuge 

in the silence of the leaves. 

he sleepwalks a song. 

they crumble the sky.

love (seldom) dreams of a moon. 

the comets whisper the secret. 

a fugue explodes. 

autrefois

a sun surreptitiously flickered into a charcoaled sky

the thunders parch the wrinkled ocean

he digs out another dimension to his silence

.

in this land

where the words are fireflies,

verses the glimmering suns,

and an askew moon

with a Gaussian blur,

and the world tilts nonchalantly, 

my heart, askance, asks -

where are you going?

"sojourn! "

the hesitant kiss, almost Kafkaesque - 

"who has plucked the moon off the sky?"

he sails away to another dream.