The vintage-worn
Rusted keys
Upon the shoulders
Of the hunchback,
The ancestral home
With a knowing smile,
That the nerve-wrecking
Is only so long
As the hand falls
Upon the ripe mango
Among the stale ones.


And then there were the Words I married,
Yet I flirted with Silence under the veiled sky
For when Words failed to speak my soul,
Silence touched those barren lands,
And came to be my partner
In fiery passion, of yet again,

No Title

She is no more
   Today, than a piece of crumb
Crumbled to a corner
In her desolate mind.

Bearing the darkness
    Fouled in cigarette stubs
Paddling her spine, breaking
Her, her teenage will.

Soft chirps buried down
     Hastily, a coarse breath limping
its way to the untamed world
Counting petals left to die.

Picking mossy stones, and
    She walked away, to that unkempt corner
Of life that was gifted at light
And torn apart at night…….