One Life To Live

Monday, July 20, 2026

Time and Light Wait for None

Vision caged, sight wandering,

They await unknowns to be sought

In a set of stunning walls, stained

In untraced fear, they bought tickets

To cast aside, blending in bitter air,

Running around, and over a tail

Heads battling the spin, kept around.

Benches and horses, galloping

Yet stagnant, their deceptive merry-go-round.

Walls of brick and mortar, they framed

In blinding steel, looped and glazed

Window, for them a worthless feature,

Dejected, declared a blank could never ever

Be a treasure, that was never once heard.

Now the light would not reach, blame the sun

They did, unnerved, it still kept burning.

Not a skylight, nor a glass pane

In sight, vision caged, they frame the sun

For the resulting plight, stale scent

A choice, a window they abandoned in fright.

[

Meta: The sun burned, they laughed

The light born(e), they mocked

The glow became bright,

Blinded, they shut windows with might.

Light moved on, no luggage, Just

With hope, beaming into night

The night fell, the one they invited

A gloom stench engulfed

They still cursed the light,

Announced it high and right.

]

The sun shone in mirth, kept shining

In hope-fragranced worth, dazzled

And razzled with a bite of sky, blessed

Open spaces, where breeze danced,

And cheered the light to frill and fly

The sun will shine and light move on

Maybe open a window, seek the dawn.

/ 27 [37]

: 177 [230]

Saturday, July 4, 2026

Precious. And Personal. That thought was more than what a thought has ever been or could ever be. It is more delicate than the first snowflake before it reaches out to touch the hard, muddled, very tangible earth. Undoubtedly, it is one of a kind like every snowflake but much rarer.

It probably has its destiny and one day... someday, it must reach earth to meet tangibility. But then it would not remain that fluff disc anymore, not for long. It will be real, yes, but who doesn't crave illusion once in a while!

Until then, I can't find it in me to let that translucence take away the breath of its presence. It is perhaps selfishness, perhaps fear, or a desperation to have wisdom beyond knowledge, or maybe something else altogether. It's that instinct to keep it veiled in the brightest light the creation could ever encompass.

Is it preservation or possession?

/ 12

: 153

Wednesday, July 1, 2026

A Door in the Dark

A knock on the door

A wooden door with a crack

A visible crack that was mended

Mostly mended three years back

With a color that did not match

I knew it was not what it promised to be

A second knock, a longer one

I should wake up and see

Through the glass peephole

But it does not show things

In the same light, or size as they are

The peripheral vision gets compromised

If someone decides

To evade the blind zone

Sometimes knowingly

I would know there's something

But never with a proof

Of what it could be

A third knock on the door

An impatient and anxious knock

One that could harm the crack

Or would it harm the door?

I know now who it would be

I know now the business

That must be there

But I am the cursed Cassandra

I know the horse that is there

And one that blessed eyes could never see

I must not answer the door

I must not wake up

'Who's there?'

No. No...

'Yes, how may I help you?'

No. The horse is there staring at my soul

The crack smirked.

Once more.

/ 36

: 195

Tuesday, June 30, 2026

June Walked On

Up the stream, summer in a hat

A straw hat made in spring

The sun had a deuce with winter

The blossoms had whistled then

With whispered hushes and cheers

The water glaring through a symphony

Half made, but still in the loop

Skipped through pebbles that looked in awe

Some it knew and few that were new

Laced in a register that flowed in a rush

The grasshopper flicked a rock's furrow

In the qualms of a breathless hop

The sparrow, the cuckoo, and the moon

Composed a lullaby for the sand downstream

With a silver lotion that smelled of stars

The second blinked in a dreamy glare

The glitter waved back from the water's edge

And the night walked on... through the peachy grass

/ 18

: 126 [156 s]

Monday, June 29, 2026

Between the Lines

A tie left loose

The fabric still perfect

In a hurried hurricane of footsteps

Through carpet-proofed hallways

And fluroscent-smelling lights

A crafted bouquet of intentions

Nervous or excited, hard to tell

Rushing through fountains

That turn and pause

To witness a bracelet getting lost

Among silky crevices of perfumed petals

Dwindling footsteps

Smiling Eyes

An unravelling watch hurdled

An assuring pen steadied

Paces soften

In Mangosteen framed stories

And then the dust settled, but

The breeze relished something new

That was not but still was new

Ranunculus and sapphire

And an ivory promise

In fabrics of conch and blue.

The tie... was still left loose...

/ 24

: 105

The Unscripted Senses of Worthwhile

Was it worthwhile

Jumping across the rife-struck riverstones,

Barely craving to be foot-dimensioned

Among street talk of the clouded crystal water,

Reaching for a grass flower,

That would be forgotten tomorrow?

Was it worthwhile

Leaning into the grumpy rack of clothes,

Desperately clinging to the remnant sandalwood scent

Of a life that once held them near for the last time

Rid of a coin-clad clue of an atomic cease,

Searching for a pair of ribbon strands,

That have surrendered their purpose?

Was it, with an ounce of risk, worthwhile

Flipping through those napthalene-infested pages,

Searching for the flair of ink strokes they housed once

Beyond the plains and shadows of valet-parked time

Among the skid marks of a hand

That had whispered its secret,

Gliding through those unsent envelopes,

That were never introduced to stamps?

Every lotus-fragmented part of a second

Every sky-draped expanse of an inch

Every neutrino-adorned thought of breath

That even the heart beat skips

And the air ignores.

Each. And. Every.

/ 27

: 165

Saturday, June 27, 2026

Beryl and a Serendipitous Cookie

A stroll in sleep in another world

That was not, but still was mine

A cookie of chance, in purple daze

Stories of rhythm in ecstatic glaze

Four years of revered and cherished pages

A world weaved in nine rhymed stages

A warm-flour scented tale of 27 books

Where anecdotes tell of word-held nooks

A redolent street of sweets in unknown words

The day breaths of light from two varied worlds

The enchantment of mundane, potent with smiles

Beryl-balanced and tranquil adventure for miles

/ 12

: 84

Tuesday, June 23, 2026

The Nail Polish Shelf

Mealprep for the week to be

In neatly labelled boxes and jars

Homemade sauces and ketchups

Curated for personal taste and tantrums

Couple tubs and ice trays of silly projects

Benevolently called icecreams and lollies

And many other things in the limited shelves

We never bothered to notice, or remember

In that small fridge from my childhood home

Was everything a world could hold

And still a place was assigned with care

For the dozen bottles of my frivolous nail polish

Time jogged and ran as fast as it could

And now there is a fridge that I call just my own

It houses icecreams with fancy names and tubs

And exotic sauces whose ingredients are, on me, lost

Mealprep remembers, follows tradition in the shelves

But they miss the variety, care, and some Love

Fruits never reach the baskets or bags

And veggies stare with anxiety at the food tags

An old forgotten cake calls in silent sobs during midnight

But during breakfast sits on my plate as a treat

The fridge is bigger than what it was

But it never kept a space for my nail polish

Not anymore, there never really was

That shelf is still there, filled with condiment sachets

And some redundant dreams that await

A weekend recipe that's never seen the light

Or a place on the stove or on a plate

I still have dozens of nail polish bottles

That never expect a zone of their own

The fridge is bigger in space... sure

But it has lost a s(h)elf in a land of its own

/ 33

: 263

Sunday, June 21, 2026

Inhaling Wild

I smell whimsies on crysanthemums,

The essence of unbothered beings

On the faint veins of white waxy petals,

Of a flower who never shares its name

And gets called wildflower instead.

They don't know its name

for they never asked,

clueless of their own game.

It has no traits of affinity of being wild,

Nor a care or obligation,

To fulfill a fate

It never wrote on its own.

It stays on a path or a field,

Or blooms out of crevices on concrete

To inhale the breeze as it deems fit.

Or seep in the sun, moon, rain, and dew

Through its skin, sans a manual or a cue.

It doesn't wish to fight the heat,

Or resent the blue of cold,

To shout resilience or power

To the wind, to be viewed as bold.

It doesn't boost fragranced spells

For the butterfly,

Or spiffy nectar for the bee.

A dream of wilderness,

Or a chance out of ashes

Not on its bucket, just spritz of glee.

And yet, it gets called wildflower

Instead of a name it never spelled out loud,

In the woods of blazed voices.

The act of not being an ounce of wild,

In a clearing where grasses too are not mild,

With an ecstatic need of being different,

Is but the sharpest tone of wild,

Nonconformance beguiled.

An arena of gladiator fights,

Reflectors and ring lights,

Brown iris and blue lens,

Oppose the wind,

For it does not make sense,

A guide to stand out, albeit dense.

But a glide through breezy bridge

To live and exist, and love with ease;

Colors are beautiful but never prioritized.

Stroll in shadows through summers

And pages of parchment through ink alchemized.

Wild but not... Not but wild.

/ 47

: 291

Pages