My Literary Indulgences...

“I sit environed by walls blue and crumbling… Yond a lone flower’s lilting, a small brook bumbling…” Imageries both powerful, yet worlds apart… Conveying who knows what, this is abstraction in art… The connoisseur says – the bard’s world is torn, And broken is his spirit as he sits in the ruins, forlorn… But the shattered remains still cling on to light, As he gazes upon the joyous flower, brook willing him to fight… The nonchalant naïve, well need I say more? He takes it at face value, nothing less, nothing more… That the bard is just reposing in an old room, And penning down what he sees – nothing more to exhume… What if for once, the naivete proves right? The bard, just relaxing – no sorrows and no fights? Yes, the quintessential abstraction has no role to play, Tired of talking in riddles, in plain words he writes and says? Grew up on classics, where lines go layers deep, Hours fly deciphering the mood, letting the emotions seep… A ques...

Blessed with supreme intellect, sentient beings us all, Joke's surely on us, 'cause often its the cause of our fall... Brooding on the past and future leaving our spirits jaded, Living life a lost lifestyle now, thinking about things overrated... What's the universal language, the energy linking us all? Why, it's music of course! Be it a symphony of joy or gall... And so I keep humming a tune, sing songs new or long faded, An essential release for my soul, which thinks silence is overrated... Home is where my heart lies, and it revels in mischief, Teasing my brother, pestering my mom beyond all relief... The child in me quite the poltergeist, is hardly ever sated, And so bickering, and scuffles abound, 'cause tranquility is overrated... Realism is my way in life, immature optimism long past, Saving everyone a pickle - cape so small, problems too vast... So I help the nearest child, devoting time where most needed, Not to save the world, but for th...

The entire cosmos, a transient being, awaiting an imminent doom... Mortal creatures us all, with temporary tenures, some in happiness, some gloom... As Shakespeare said, a man in his life is not once but twice puerile... But no passing is as prolonged, no departing as riling, as of a smartphone turned senile... Long past are it's hay days, when the lissome figure drew many swoons and fawns... Now, cracked, bent, broken, it shakes and weeps of those days from dusk to dawn... Once the pride of the creator, pampered with bug fixes, security and firmware updates... Now crashes at the slightest unbalance, the least provocation, becomes impossible to resuscitate... Once a decathlon runner, hopping hurdles was as easy as eating apple pie... An excellent juggler of the multitude of tasks thrown, it did a great job to satisfy... Now tottering even with support is asking too much, energy sapping to null in a blink... Multitasking a trait long rusted, handling even the most basic jo...