This poem is a lie,
This poem is a tie,
This poem, a way to bond,
This poem, willing to abscond.

This poem is an escape,
This poem, a refuge in words,
This poem, is my cape,
This poem, a truth backwards.

Have you heard of the little dance,
The dance, moonlight and candlelight share?
They dance to the rhythm,
The rhythm to earth’s air.

The moonlight stirs up a wave,
Stirs up tides of passion,
It calls forth sensual howls,
A confident assertive expression.

The candlelight on the other hand,
Dances a different dance,
It dances of concealment,
a dance of graceful stance.

The moonlight dances with me
Shows me the way in my dark
The candlelight dances with me
Shows me the way in my dark

Have you heard; heard about the dance?
The dance of the candle, the dance of the moon?
They share this little dance, the dance of their glow
The dance of the light, upon us they show
They dance to the rhythms,
The rhythms of earth.

Have you heard; heard about the dance.

I met a girl last night

Her hair a fluid lucid illusion
Her motion a brisk frisk crisp

I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi
With her brush she danced
My skin, her stage

With her brush she swooned
As my heart, to her, crooned

She drew a sun, and a musical note
In black and red, with heart she wrote

I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi

Shyly, she held my hand
As the music grew louder, O the band

She wet her brush, dipped in paint
Let go of boundaries, all restraints

I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi

Her hair a fluid lucid illusion
Her motion a brisk frisk crisp

She drew a sun, and a musical note
In red and black, with heart she wrote

She surrounds my scape,
                           Oh my old angel.
Teaching me how to fly,
                           Oh my old angel.

Paving my path, showing me my way,
                           Oh my old angel.

Wrinkling wisdom from her face,
                           Oh my old angel.

Dancing with freckled bones
As she shares my joy
                           Oh my old angel.

Soon her sun too will dawn,
                           Oh my…old angel.

I promise I will return one day
to appreciate the scenic beauty
                           Oh my old angel.
                           I think you dearly

Blog at: http://designserif.com/post/69547955119/she-surrounds-my-scape

Oh the click-clock of his shoes
Oh the click-clock of his steps
As swift as I could I ran
As swift as I could I did

Running
Hasting
Rushing to the music

Oh for the click-clock is back
The click-clock of this shoes
The sound I long, my muse

He’s home at last, at home at last he is.

On blog: http://designserif.com/post/69547664690/oh-the-click-clock-of-his-shoes-oh-the-click-clock

It’s evening
The hawkers at the station are loud
One is selling lottery tickets
The girl in her old dress, and new earrings caresses her earrings to feel their weight in her hands
She looks at the lottery tickets and wonders why people believe in them


A local comes along with a wave of people
She stands upright and surfs the wave to stay
She knows this isn’t the local she is waiting for
She tells the boy she is with that she had a great time
And he thanks her for a wonderful evening.
He looks at her face one more time, not quite ready to say goodbye yet
He looks at the clock at the station. It’s precisely 8:06 PM
The local will come at 8:08 PM.
He is hoping it’ll be late today.
He needs those extra seconds to prepare himself.
Certain goodbyes in life are harder than you thought they would be.
He looks straight into the eyes of the girl
And sees his reflection in her eyes
Scared of what he sees, he looks away
The girl adornes her new earrings again
She looks at the clock
The old rusty clock still shows 8:06 PM
Time had slowed down for her.
She feels the platform shaking
She fears it is the local approaching earlier?
She hugs him without a seconds delay
Surprised, the boy blushes. And continues the embrace
He whispers to her and tells her, that her earrings are pretty
She smiles
Perhaps this is the best way to say good bye.
The clock is now at 8:08PM and the local is not there yet
They both smile at each other, then look at the clock.
The boy can see the local approaching. He hugs her tighter once again.
And makes sure she doesn’t see the approaching train
She slowly slides out of his arms like sand from a man’s fist. He tries holding her firmer, but in vain
They both smile at each other and say an awkward bye.
She boards the local and tries to find a seat.
He waits patiently at the platform waiting for her to look out once more
The local is about to move and his heart is beating faster than the engine
He can feel her sight on him and looks her way.
She has a crooked smile with which she waves at him.
He waits at the station till the local moves.
He walks a bit with the local and then stops next to the hawker.
He waves at her one more time and watches as the train goes.
He looks at the hawker and wonders why people believe in lotteries.His phone buzzes in his pocket.
He has a big grin, he won the lottery after all
He walks out of the station with a jump in his step as he pats the Bandra station board.

So sweet, So beautiful,

The world awaiting her embrace,

A move is all it took,

With all her women’s grace.

Reminds me of a caring figure,

A special person in my heart,

The imprints would still remain,

Though soon we shall part.’

Looking out of the window,

I wonder what she sees,

Is it the same as I belive,

What she makes out of a tree.

Like a baby she sees,

Without any fear or regret,

What makes her so special,

Is a safe hidden secret.

I do sense some sadness,

Some impressions left on her heart,

Who knows if she was too,

Scarred in a war.

Why am I writing this poem,

This surely ain’t a dedication,

For here goes nothing ‘cause she is special,

Just a deep inspiration.

Out of words I’m not,

There is a lot which can be said,

for such a sweet jane,

Is surely heaven made.