The world is inherently ugly,

Dull as the thud of death

Muddled in everyday indifference –


The very reason poets

Look to the sky,

And madmen (like I)


Cannot stop

Scratching the surface,

Scarring parchment skin,


In hope of striking scarlet gold,

Buried away by leprechauns

With sorrows old.



Bleed now,

My dearest.


For the world depends

On the declotting

Of this sentiment.






Don’t fall in love with him;

He’s a dreamer.

The twig that sits on your hair

Is his snowflake;

The sweat on your skin

Dew of a morning nigh;

Freckles born on your back

Galaxies in his sky.


Don’t fall in love with him;

He’s a poet.

Glimmering verses will besiege

An unsuspecting heart,

Like gossamer on morning grass.

No words of another

Will taste right

On a tongue scathed.


Don’t fall in love with him;

He’s a lover.

Kisses will mark your monuments,

Your morning azaan and evening chai.

Your dreams will be tangled with,

Wild hair addicted to,

Symphonic sighs.


Don’t fall in love with him.

Don’t think it.

But if you dare to, sweet girl,


For he’s a dweller,

And you’re home.