friends i have a plenty
some bound in leather, and some etched in vinyl

lag

by the time spring comes
i am numb from the cold. half dead

the sun however is like a little boy
he wants to play. now

but it takes me time to defrost
and he stamps off in an angry huff

the freezing winter doesnt recognise
his aftermath in the frozen wasteland

it is a fool who is hurt by winter
and fearfully reserved in spring with spring

it is a fool who mourns the years end
forgetting the seasons and the earth will never separate

and yet, someone said, anyone can be passionate, only true lovers
can be truly foolish. with a foolishness the envy of kings

if we had known what life would be like, would we have signed up for it? yes! a thousand times yes

solitude tax

Aritra lived in stark isolation. silence, isolation, the focus of every hour were not just necessary sacrifices he made to the alter of his quest, but gifts of love; which there was deep pleasure in the act of giving. but for one night, gust of pandean wind blew the smells & sounds of the city of men over the walls of his fortress

screams freeze like icicles
and fall on innocent
passerby. with no warning
tears introvert
and run as blood
blood congeals
as paralysis spreads
down slowing limbs
and silent rooms
as i slowly accept
that fear and weakness
will leave me trapped in hell
till it freezes over