The Art of Pretence

Pic : Self

Pretence, I practice
in the precincts
of my head,

of being
a bee
to that flower,

that dances
alluringly
in sunshine breeze,

but the bloom
intutive
intelligent,

beckons
the wind
its trusted ally,

to blow away
into
oblivion,

even
the buzz
of these thoughts,

and pretence
becomes
the art,

that yearns
but never
manifests.

© vidursahdev 2018

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Candle in the Wind

You can’t tell
a flame,
to stop
burning,

like the heart,
it too
is totally
devoid,

of the sense
of hearing,
the wisdom
of listening,

once lit,
it only knows
how to burn
till the very last,

or,
till the wind
decides to
snuff it.

© vidursahdev 2018

The Pottering Poet

They reveal
in words,

what they
hide,

from the
world,

it’s not
just the art,

but their
soul they bare,

their darkness
too,

comes
from a light within,

what your eyes
might miss,

they’ll make
your heart feel,

their own hearts
afire,

as each
a blazing sun,

the molten
that burns,

at the core
of the earth,

masked by the
seas,

or a cultivated
cover,

read them
or not,

but deride
them not,

for poets
are poets,

but they are
people too.

© vidursahdev 2018

The Breeze Tonight

Pic : Self

Tonight
I am just a breeze,

that blows
without a destiny,

seeking nothing
nor sought by any,

just a breeze
without a memory,

devoid of emotions
unafraid of calamities,

frivolous in my pace
gentle in my gait,

invisible to all
but felt by many,

no form, no face
to identity at stake,

revved up
by an energy,

that I know
is inherently temporary,

tonight
I am just a breeze,

and for once
it’s all I want to be,

for tonight
I am more me,

than I
will ever be.

© vidursahdev 2018

Time to Release

Pic : Self

You did what you could,

but sometimes
that isn’t enough,

for expectations
can never be met,

unless measured
by the other’s heart.

And sometimes to the other,

it’s the fulfillment
of their insatiable,

self-conceived measure,
that really matters,

and not the voice
or the volume,

of your bleeding heart.

© vidursahdev 2018

Vulnerable

Pic : Self

Life often
hits us,
where it hurts
the most,

and
for each one
that place
may
be different,

and when
we rise again
in what
seems
like another life,

we know
that space
will always be,
the weakest
part
of us,

for
only we know,
how
that one cut
there,
once almost
killed us,

but somehow
we survived it,
and now
we hide it,
from every other
questioning eye,

It still hurts
but we don’t
say it,
we know it
but we no longer
define it,

yet we
protect it,
like warriors
with all the defenses,
our insecure
being
has,

for we often
find safety,
in the known
pain
that persists,

than taking
the chance,
of exposing
that vulnerability
again.

© vidursahdev 2018

Words

Pic : Self

You keep
looking
for a face,

and I have
changed
so many,

that even time
no longer
keeps track,

you keep
searching
for a trace,

but the dusty
road
ensures,

that I don’t
leave any
behind,

Yet
the familiarity
of the words,

haunts you,
in an endless
timeless game,

as if amongst
the many
masks worn,

the voice
that
emanates,

from
the silence,
of the words,

still sounds
and resonates
the same,

And I smile
during every
such,

contracted
limited
existence,

where you
become
the ink,

and without
the slightest
touch,

in words
I leave you
with my trace.

© vidursahdev 2018