Young

 I remember reading storybooks with their nice endings and pretty imagery, sometimes it struck me odd why the opposite was rarely discussed, just the fear built about it fenced the plot. I realize now that stories like those were an escape from reality; a world with perfection is not real, and the real world does not always care for the disproportionate shareholders of love. It is not just, but it is an equalizer for the suffering and joy that comes with the pain of being unable to love someone. I wrote this when I began thinking of real world love, a perfection that is unable to happen because time & space dictate against it. It is called "2 lucky souls": Isn't it sweet, isn't it sweet Two lucky souls who never get to meet One falters with love, the other repeats Divided by distance, united defeat In the same line of sight is this poem, called "These streets": Sipping, talking about nothing; whistling, nodding wondering things, what if we belonged tog...

This is for dadi (1935-2021).  Sometimes I can't reach you Like sun rays filtered by layers of small rivulets, unable to touch the bed I am unable to reach you Beside your bed I find my eyes marveling at the beauty of time, how it sinks and rises like ravines on your skin Reddening your flesh from within Inhaling life and exhaling your living Inside your eyes however, grey circles circumfere the brown of your youth It reminds me you were sweet and small once Surely a little tinier, mind full of thoughts and words like whispers You whisper now, with great effort Experiences have shown you humankind  You tried to show me, only  kind humans You were kind I see in myself what you tried to show me all this while A soul of my own finding it's way Your own soul seems to be achieving it's purpose I believe in God only in times like such When I think and I think without saying much Tell me stories, make them never end I don't like endings I don't like them