The Red and the Blue

Pic : Self

i only
exist on paper,
the rest is just
a play of time,
my entire existence
funneled,
into blue drops
falling
one at a time,

seeping into
the non-judgemental,
virgin
white viens
of a paper,
that at its worst
will gracefully
yellow
with time,

looking for
a permanent home,
before the red
in these
live viens,
turns blue
with an inevitable
end in time,

knowing
when that happens,
the indigo blue
which bleeds today,
will come to bear
the crimson glow,
of that
which was once,
red and alive.

© vidursahdev 2019

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Unexplained

Pic : Self

The reasons
we meet,
quite often
unknown,

till long
after,
the parting
has happened,

questions
i still ask,
holding
your picture in hand,

who decided
for me,
that i didn’t
need you no more,

for if i am
the master,
of my own
karmas,

am i not entitled
to choose my own,
teachers, mates,
and soul-mates,

and happily
or unhappily,
complete
my given life’s chores,

for if the results
are mine,
and so
is the atonement,

who decided
for me,
that your presence
was no longer a must,

and if it is
all about,
a preordained
destiny,

then why
give me more emotions,
than that puppet
on a string,

what
could i have done,
to extend
your stay for longer,

a karmic connection
was good,
but from you
i needed more,

and sometimes
this game puzzles me,
when my soul
admittedly yearns for more.

© vidursahdev 2019

Choices

Pic : Self

Presences
and absences,
for me
remain,
two sides
of the same coin,

i toss again
at each miss,
blatantly
challenging,
destiny’s odd
calls,

for even when
the fingers
hurt,
you remain,
my only coin
to toss,

one side
in the memory,
and the other,
in front
of the eyes.

© vidursahdev 2019

Hear me

Pic : Self

Hear me
when i’m silent,

for there is
so much
that i have
to say to you,

the sun
is blessed
to make
its presence felt,

but the night
has its own way
of meaningful
conversations too,

hear me me
when i’m silent,

for there is
so much
that i need
to say to you.

© vidursahdev 2019

Musings: True Love

Pic : Self

…and true love is

bereft
of the need
to receive back,
what
to even
begin with,
is at best
a one way flow,

bereft
of the need,
to balance
the scales,
to prove
to the world
that it is equally
weighed too,

bereft
of the need
to be acknowledged,
as something
higher,
than the slope
towards which
it naturally flows,

bereft
of the need
to defend itself,
against
all the colors
and reflections,
which tend
to mar its glow,

bereft
of the egoistical ‘I’
or the goal
of a directional ‘you’,
it knows
no hows and whys,
and its existence
seeks nothing more.

© vidursahdev 2019

Cryptic

Pic : Self

I no longer
believe
in cryptic communications,

for I always read more
than was sought
to be said,

now,
I’d rather be hit
with a hammer on the head,

than bleed on the the thorns
deceptively hidden
amongst the roses red.

© vidursahdev 2019

The City of Ruins

I am
the dead city,
you visit
as a tourist,

my teary ruins,
are your
guide’s
monetary lifeline,

he narrates
diligently,
what was
taught to him,

though
he knows not,
the sounds
the footsteps,

or the brightness
of the lights,
that were
once mine,

In its own
long gone,
and buzzing
lifetime,

my history
was worth,
so much
more,

than what is
told,
in these present
abbreviated times,

but the energy
now gone,
and the pulse
is dead,

Yet, i hold on
dearly,
to these now
falling remnants,

that serve
as a backdrop,
to your pictures
and memories,

for they help me
survive,
my now
lonely nights,

the ruins
you see,
will fall further
with time,

but the grandeur
of the tales,
is destined
to climb,

though those
that i housed,
sleep peacefully
in their graves,

as i continue
my fight,
with an unforgiving
time,

just
to keep,
their
memory alive.

© vidursahdev 2019