National Day of Robotic Maintenance

Your story, main character, and world
Talked to me, to the elders of my tribe,
During an elusive era where simple
Silhouettes walk on a desert’s horizon,
Searching to settle near a fruitful oasis,
And when books were written to
Commemorate our legends, they were
Suffocated to never reveal the rightful heir,
(to a scorching throne buried in quicksand)
Yet, after decades of silence the glorious
Book was resurrected in a classical concert,
Soon to be confiscated, burnt, and our
Whispering hearts to be forever silenced,
Now, we are but drones awaiting the
National Day of Robotic Maintenance.

To Reach Her Heartbeat

A sudden movement of a pulsating star
Might indicate a celestial heartbeat,
One that awaits many hugs and kisses,
Awaiting on the shores of hope,
Listening to the whispers of life,
Leaving footprints on our sand,
Now constellations start to play darts,
And I might have missed the bullseye,
But I still look towards the pulsating star,
Hoping to reach her heartbeats, one day.

Three Celestial Miracles

When the moon nourishes the heart of a forlorn sand,
And when the shooting star orbits around Polaris,
Where shall the nomadic sand go to seek seeds of guidance?
If not for the celestial bodies embedded in our skies,
The moon would dwell on uneven edges of the Earth,
But as a sand seeking a fruitful tomorrow,
I camp on mountainous constellations,
Listening to Polaris’ revelations,
How the everlasting silences of the shooting star
Will recreate the Big Bang,
How the infinite smiles of the moon
Will redirect the flow of Time,
And we may once more wonder where will the
Forlorn nomadic sand be if not for these three?

Introversion

And here I thought Monday night
Would be deserted from socialising
Creatures, seeking a place of serenity,
A some sort of sanctuary, or an
Uninhabited temple far from
Civilisation, somewhere in the depths
Of endless oceans, or within the
Magnanimous dampened jungles,
Or even on the blazing sand dunes,
Albeit, this particular café had a
One-seated table-for-four in one of
Its corners, the most annoying thing
Was the high-pitched creatures, and
So, the night kept going even when
The longed sanctuary was nowhere
To be found, and lost was I amongst
These socialising extroverted creatures.

Writers’ Society

Is this the beach where
The sun-kissed air form
A sand to walk on and where
The eyes fish the horizon
From afar, yet closer
Than the writer: that’s one,
And two, you, whom made
The whispering dance
Melodic – a ritual for the ears
To invite a third: the listener,
Sit beside me to sing a poetic
Ode, but back to number two
Since the circumference
Of this circle is two times radius
Times pi. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five times two-pi: around thirty one,
Such is the glamour of
Writers’ circle – no, spherical:
A volumetric evolution,
A colourful blueprint of
The beach ball, an old kid’s
Heaven. Yours and mine,
But is this truly the beach where
The sun-kissed earth form
A rock to climb on and where
The eyes fish the clouds
From afar, yet closer
Than the timer: that’s it! Pens down!