Friday, July 19, 2013

untitled #4 / thoughts of rain

while it rains in dulcet tones,
summersongs drip from the leaves
and rainbows peek out of puddles
rippling in notes of blue.

thoughts of rain keep me up
while i play my tunes
with little thought
to tomorrow's hazy dawn.

rainsmith, rainsmith
last orders and another song
for the road that will
see you through?

i hope at least some can figure out who/what this pays tribute to. a tiny clue would be the name of my blog.

untitled #3

the night carves out iridescent verse
amidst stormy collisions of the soul
in a soliloquy with the rainsmith.

with piano toned and lilted lyrics
from moonshine puddles
'twixt silences which make leaves rustle.

till reality rings out
and the song voice
tells it all to stop.

this scrap of blank verse was inspired by a late night train ride (something i always find quite inspiring); and this song -

Friday, July 12, 2013

untitled #2

and in you waltz
through once unhinged
and now delicately balanced
which can only leave
a frail impression of solidity.

your smile is out of context;
a gorgeous song which has tasted blood.
your voice
a careful hazy indifference
masking misplaced emotions
masking more apathy.

it rains in our fever dreams
peeling away all the colours
promises made driftwood
sinking in a whirlpool of words
i look back just as you look away.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

The book of our rhymes

Somewhere there is a book
lost elsewhere so we would never look.
Yellowed parchment the color of sunsets and kisses
words the shape of lullabies in foreign tongues
and the floaty things you see when you close your eyes.
Where the ink smells of rain and lost love
and the letters form the shapes of pretty melodies intertwined like lovers.

the book is as different as he who reads it.
Emotional tripwires,
and hungover memories,
the undying need to scream,
spring tinged laughter,
tunes yet unwritten
and lovers` talk
and heartbroken poems;
but it's none of those,
and of course
nothing else either.
Pages of waking dreams
with ever-changing hues
as fickle as a smile.

The book is everyone who takes a peek
and some who stop at the cover.
It's the dog ears
and the kaleidoscope bookmarks
at seemingly unimportant pages
and underlined words and illegible
footnotes. Footnotes are important.
It's the time spent reading it,
the tears and crumbs across its folds.

Don't you get it yet?
A dream along a mobius strip
is where it ought to begin.
And so,
it'll never again end
between you and the
six degrees of separation
from the last song ever sung.

Oh, and the book has no index
just in case you were wondering.
Get your own.

Monday, July 1, 2013

untitled #1

velvet wrapped memories
kept out of sight
promises and hopes, wrapped
in cream sunset cellophane
poems and letters
with words that just seemed right
without a second thought

the whispered precious
few moments
when we dreamed happy
of waking up the next morning
and nothing would have changed.

and then we woke up.

The seduction of dreams

it won't be long till my dreams
are seduced again.
the yellow white speckled
parchment paper would do.
i can see the ink blots on it
taking a myriad of shapes
that are as incomprehensible
as the criss crossing shadows
when the streetlights come on.

the afterglow of dusk might
lead to rain. it might not. and
drops of shard memories will flow
down our hands through veins of
long lost emotion; i watch your eyes
watch them as they drip off
and into the parched wind
which was the only stowaway
when our doors were closed
and your eyes shone brighter than ever.
those eyes will make even lesser
sense soon enough.

ever is a word that should
never be written.
it is always a lie.
a beautiful, stained glass emotion
wrapped into itself inside a kaliedoscope
that makes it ever so pretty.
till the sun goes down.
then there remains only
the sounds of tinkling,
broken glass bangles
in mockery of a stupid roadside dream.

it might not be long till my dreams
are seduced again.
but every dream wakes up a nightmare.
the mirror cracks when you ask it to
lie one more time.
there is a rhyme for frayed edges,
a soliloquy for every fear
that takes us hostage in broad daylight.
there will always be songs about you.
but none for you. because.


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