this blog has now moved to theliltedlyric.wordpress.com/ :)

You're beautiful, but you're not true.

you're beautiful, but you're not true.

lip-locked with a dream,
you tasted of moonlight.

a vibrato of the senses
once touched by the ethereal.

a song by the crackling fire,
and perfect obsidian sleep.

a lullaby scented of summer
and pine cones;
and of doors of rain.

but just like that,
you're beautiful, but you're not true.

----
conceptualised from fragments of Ginsberg, Aldiss and Gaiman; written during the journey between Pune and Mumbai.

untitled #5

and we meet
in a garden of words,
separated by a palindrome
of emotions
which will never come to pass.
reflected on rainbow puddles
and across sing song clouds
in dewdrops and pond side dreams,
scattered syllables of
secret smiles
and sidelong glances.

till the rainsmith is gone
and static fills every empty nook
that rain brushed cobblestones
left behind.

----
this one's totally inspired by the movie Garden of Words. and the rains of course.

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 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GdqHJqeVy8

untitled #2

and in you waltz
through once unhinged
and now delicately balanced
doors
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
unsaid.
i look back just as you look away.

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.