Late night, standing by the window

I see snow falls, the sky glares—

The street trampled with yellow fragrance,

Tells of drunkard swears in the Picasso's

Heartstrings but this isn’t Pandora’s box,

The tireless face grows impatient.

‘Courage’ is what they have as rage,

It’s not a street for sleeping anymore,

But for those who born out of desires,

Bagged the stage to burn the shells,

Some die, some reborn to destroy old.

The fireflies grow blue in the dizzy

lamplight, I see her coming out of smokey

portrait— igniting the fire within firebox,

She stirred her arms in the subtle change,

I, the poet, entrapped in forget me nots.

So I walk back in the cold night,

Some days the rain greets me,

In the name of sea-grief cries,

I was supposed to scribble—

my sobbing encounter.

But it’s the rain of dreams, it’s the rain

quiet hours, memory lane trips down

as juxtaposition of built-up regrets,

Whether you drink to-night, leave

a full cup into a half one, the shadows

trickled the earth into a silent show. 

I smile drinking my embarrassment,

marching a candle, searching for her face—

I draw these verses for my Pandora box,

before the secret got tossed, digital poets

don’t weep, letting thoughts run into

the cold rain, my pen stumbles for a name.

— 28th September, 2024.