Walking with her… in her heels

she wakes up drenched in the ocean of dreams,

and hurries off to repair, work on her life’s seams,

brushing rivulets of her hair, she leans into the mirror,

considering self, moving forward near and nearer,

only disturbed by the ring of the peaceful phone,

but deciding whether to attend it or not, it is gone

to leave a silence, that she tastes tingling on her lips,

and finally, she leaves for the streets, swaying her hips,

down the path to the usual location, she waits,

habitually ignoring the trail of car after car that rates,

the size and shape of her and others of her business,

conforming to their needs, their lives of weakness,

one hand points towards her, agreeing her to come,

she notices, complies, and through the door she sits glum,

on the seat reeking of cigarettes and urine of old,

she feels the four wheels move, she is now sold

to the night, forgetful of her heart that refuses to beat,

she falls out, not to see a thing or hear the fall of sleet,

coming to herself, she stands, stumbling, stiffness she feels,

exits a bar, a motel, an apartment in her heels,

carefully counting the bills, walking on into the day,

alone on the path where there are many and many  lay,

but no one really is, but for dreams that await on the single bed,

those false entities have no seams repaired, she has no threads


Image source

I started off without any thought but then I was reminded of the insensitivity of some people towards those… whose lives they have not lived and yet they judge. They do not know how it is to be in their shoes. I feel and I can at least try to imagine their lives… and give words to their untold stories. This is a work of fiction but it may well be a real life account… I don’t know.

I appreciate constructive criticism.

I am linking it up with dVerse Meeting the Bar.

A Story of Despondency

frolicking about in a sort of daze,

he constantly says, “It is just a phase”,

day and night, he would wander

perpetrate one or another blunder,

shattering the vinyl valuable vase,

his heart’s shards, of crystal glass,

the moon rises up and descends down,

day light turns from yellow to brown,

each sparkling night, he would wake,

counting all his bones, he did break

through the wasteful words, he write,

for the future, he has lost his sight,

he has his highs and so many lows,

from his expression, nothing shows

of the punctures, within his chest,

which bleed framing a congealing crest,

he could at times, be seen with a smile,

his eyes wild, with the sheen of a senile,

or it is often when his face does give away

nothing, impassive lips, blue and grey,

he is unfamiliar, quite an anonymity,

he has no home, no abode, no city,

he carries on, kept on, keeping on,

forgotten time going and thus gone,

it is a story of despondency, true or untrue,

it is just a matter of one’s own view,

he is someone, or he was, or he will be,

I don’t know, cos’ that is his secret key


Image source

Tagging it as the poem for 7 November for NaBloPoMo. Please do share your feedback and leave a link to one of your posts, which makes it easier for me to visit you.

That creepy fellow…

it was a dull knock, or may be I was too much in sleep, to know of it,

but it awakened me, for its resonance pounded across the walls,

of the mind that seems to do, what it deems fit, always and anyways,


opening my eyes was though difficult, what with all the gooey stuff,

I rubbed them, and tried to look for the light switch,

but it was already so bright, so white… it was the clear night,


and there was a silhouette, at my window… I asked, “Who is it?”

“Let me in and I will tell you what I am” “Come in”

the glass was shattered, into small mirrors, which did not reflect


the dark personage of the man, who stealthily came in,

“Now tell me who are you?” I asked dubiously and

for an answer, what I got, was a slap on the head,


“You fool… I come at night, at the window, asking for

the permission, to enter your shelter, and you call me in,

who did you think I was… your mother?”


his face was mysterious, but for a white sheen, at his lips,

“Uhm… Mum, is that really you? But how did you come, to

have this manly voice, and why are you…”


but my lips were pinched shut, before I could complete,

“Grrr…. are you joking with me? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Uh… like some creepy fellow… uhm… I am not of age yet,”


that was all I managed to say, through my lips, fingered by him,

and then was when, he shrieked in agony, “Crap.. Shit…”

his hand was deflected back, to somewhere unknown,


as he kept on wailing and shaking, so badly,

“What happened… you alright… buddy?” I stood up to him,

“Don’t you dare, bring those lips near to me…,


What did ya have for dinner? A ton of raw garlic…”

his eyes were watery, and I wondered why he was crying,

“Uhm… I had some chutney- of course garlic and onion”


“Whoop! I will come see you, another day…. no, night”

“Okay… you leaving?” “Of course” and he was gone;


in the morning, I got up, aromatic… smiling

at the glorifying odor emerging from my mouth…

“Ah!” and also with a phone number written over


my night t-shirt… “Call me when you haven’t had

anything close to garlic for dinner-> 4-18-1-3-21-12-1”

“Never… I am a garlic boy, and I always eat garlic,”

I stated, to the whole wide world, with a grin


Image source

Well, that is the height of silliness. My mind has gone awry, I guess.

It is supposed to be written for dVerse Poetics theme today of the Halloween monsters, shown in a different light/humorous tone.

Hope you solved the cryptic phone number. It is easy, I know but I couldn’t think of anything clever to add, instead.

watching a movie||an event unfurling in life

leaning towards the laptop screen,

eyes fixated at the ensuing horror,

of the gory scenes of a eunuch,

going after to kill a pious prostitute,

I trembled as my mobile began to ring,

(it was a song by Enrique, I guess),

fingering the touch pad, pausing the scene,

at the view of the stringent struggles,

of the woman in clothes torn, running,

escaping through a tunnel of dead bodies,

(the previous preys of the animal),

I handled the device in my hands to find

an unknown number printed on the screen,

I received the call, my ears quivering,

to know who the person was, on the other side,

it was a classmate and I sighed in relief,

but my expressions changed in an instant,

she was breathing hard, cry of a grievous mutt,

“What… What… Are you alright?”

her voice was drenched in teary sadness,

“HA, she is no more. She is no more…”

(she divulged the name of the deceased),

it was silence; I could hear my heart pounding,

we both were silent in meditation,

hearing the nothingness of the network lines,

“It is okay. Don’t worry. It is okay.”

it was I, who dared to end

the reverent pain of the moment,

“Don’t worry. It is going to be alright.”

(what was going to be alright!?)

after disconnecting the call,

I went back to the movie as

the boisterous burly man-woman,

murdered the captured girl,

who had survived for so long,

I was watching it but I was not,

a part of me died, a new part attached,

I have come to accept her demise,

a lost friend who I doubt was ever my friend,

(it does not matter at all, anymore),

but I am not yet able to believe it


* Well, it is a true story… August’ 11.

** Written in consideration of dVerse Meeting the Bar.

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Dream: A Short Story

(For Trifecta)

“I want to go to the city, where there are so many avenues available. I will get to be in the middle of things and I could prove my talent,” she said, her eyes lost in a world far away from their small town.

“What do you aim to do there?” As a supportive father, he wanted to listen to her before putting forth his own opinion about it.

“Oh… well, I will do what all others do.”

“And what is it they do?”

“I will… I will get an agent, who could help me visit the parties and the functions where I could meet up with the directors and other film personalities. It is all about making yourself available at the right spot at the right time. It is probable that I will get the opportunity that I so want.” She smiled, which was an evidence of that childish wonder and a dream, which was a result of townsfolk praising her for her beauty and acting skills.

Her father did not reply for a while and a silence pervaded in the room.

“Well, what do you think, dad?”

“Is it that simple? You know, it seems to me that you are trying to chase a rainbow.”

Her smile faded. “A rainbow…? Dad, I want it. I want the fame, success. I want the life of a film star.”

“Aren’t you content with all what you have? You might lose it all, blinded by the glittering city.”

“I love my life here, dad but I want to achieve my dream and I need your support.” That was all she said. She had already bought a ticket for the city bound train, which was to leave early in the morning.

Next day, she was surprised to find her father with his suitcase, waiting at the station.

“I believe in you. I am with you,” he stated. She embraced the best man of her life, as the train whistled its arrival with the rising sun.