Tuesday, 29 November 2011


This guilt offers no getaways,
No spiral path to re-trace,
A walk back to a beginning,
To un-knot the middle
Of a fixed telos set in wet cement.
Except perhaps, a forever of
Slow regret seeping through
The crevices of days.


Sunday, 20 November 2011

Book-ways


This landscape of memory,
And the portrait of one
Posing forever, frozen
In some sepia world;
The margins cleared
Of remembered words,
A text of desire paginated
Into an easy understanding
Of the wise ways of the world
Hard-bound now against
The despoiling of time;
Crisp pages, each
Chaptering new moments
Whirled in continuum
Of infinite whiteness
And traces of ink
Scribbling away
New lines on old die-hard tales.
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