Lost !

On her hands, he writes a verse..

always the lost poet

who has told a long story

in broken silence

cryptic.

In his sack,

he carries a brush,

a pencil with blunt tip

and a few sketches

he has stolen from

an unvisited memory lane.

Yesterday,

he wrote about paper boats,

fallen maple leaves

and a rainbow that has faded,

colors blended, blurred...

Sometimes, he looks at her

for a long time,

closing his eyes..

he lives in a fear,

that there will never be an escape..

that the poet will forever be lost,

found and unfound...

I found him last evening,

he looked sad...

but he reasoned,

there is nothing to be sad about.

I chose not to say,

happiness can't be reasoned.

And so he lives,

restless and resigned..

at the same time,

a lover and a loner,

broken in halves..

he tries to smoothen the edges

of what is left of the broken...

(c)Ankur

Shattered

In the deafening silence

Of a hollow laugh,

Something, somewhere is often missed.

In the hundred lies we live everyday,

And the truth that remains

Naked, battered and cold

In an ego that is too proud

To just wither away, choked.

And so I stand on the edge,

Of a sad smile,

Ready to fall in the bleeding pits of eyes

Where a dream remains

Like a shred of glass.

I am ready to fall

To break into a million pieces,

Not ready to die

Without one final rebellion.

Some people reach a breaking point,

Some wait,

Torturing themselves,

Taking it all

And not once asking,

"when is enough?"

They will be freed,

After the turmoil

Destroyed

Without a trace of lie left behind

To wither slow.

There are rivers,

That revolt,

And die in their youth,

No salty surrender for them.

And so I wait,

To be hit real hard

And stand, unshaken.

To fight back

And fall for once

After the fight is won.

Without ever hearing

The countdowns.

Because I have to wait

Through every day defeats

And meaningless victories

To be shattered

With no pity.

~Ankur Srivastava



From Brookefield

He sits at the bus stop

That reads Brookefield,

An urban child with no history

Of its childhood....

Shoulders limp and head thrown back,

He listens to the noise

Of cars and passers-by

That dissolves yesterday's talks.

He flicks a finger, quietly

And turns it "mute".

He walks up to the road

That leads to more such roads.

He holds the road, the grey sky above it

And the city that stretches beyond

Between his fingers

Like a canvas of flowing colors

And moving images

That mean nothing.

He rips it apart.

He spreads a faint-blue canvas

And picks his paint-brush,

A lemon-yellow morning

And eternal sadness

Of many nights

That have not slept.

He paints "waiting"

Of the city-clock

That still ticks

In some forgotten days.

He tosses away the paintbrush,

Without a signature.

He walks away

And carries the canvas along.

(c)Ankur