The Journey

I always flowed out

like a currency, making you

stand guard, to my entire length of river

till the well dried up,  the sands

clogging my cove.

Depleted sap; in and out,

I lay splayed

a desert with a drouth.

The sea, an aqua platina

alloyed, by under-currents

and spilled oil, stood agitated

perhaps waiting for a delta,

to take in his tides.

The tides, the swelling tides

from across the mass of people

makes me an alchemist;

I add chapters to my

book; I flow in now.

Hammock

Ever since the child has learnt to walk,

You’ve taken his place

In the sling on my back.

I carry your weight

All day long;

It makes my spine hunched.

How it aches, time and again.

 But now, I’ve bought a hammock

I climb onto this sling,

It rocks me; cradles me.

I sleep like the child and you

In its hollow folds

For another day’s grind.

Nemesis

Ever since,

the sepia tinted bed time stories

have started showing shut doors

I have folded and hung them on a nail.

I have even

collected the runaway sleeps

pressing them into little red-blue pills.

Nothing moves

save the dark-

coercing me to cohabit with it.

Cohen says, light comes in through the crack;

I hear- an Incubus visits Irene,

does it slide in, through the breach?

A while from now, the clock will

insult, in its hysterical shriek; and-

I will veil my untouched length of silk

once more, with heavy cottons.

The thobbing legs will run to reap

More than it can keep.