Do stand on an isolated bus stop,
The train will arrive any second,
Galloping through this sphere,
A time machine that will unfold,
And do await like never before,
An unwanted box full of gifts,
Finally accepted with open arms,
Albeit, emotions do get tangled,
Solution: extinguish the candle,
Hope for a better tomorrow,
No, somehow just work it out,
Make your stance formidable,
A foundation for a skyscraper,
And rebuild the broken parts,
Hidden under layers of dust,
And please do forgive yourself.

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!