The Face in the Mirror

I stand in front of the mirror,
Not in protest but in acceptance of my other being
As my mind continues to fight reality,
And my heart weeps in accepting 
What has been forced on to me.
I wish to see my face in the reflection 
But I only see the blurred vision of my future.

Draped in that red saree,
As I approach, unity of my man and I
I relive my entire life in front of me. 
Like frames in a movie reel,
My blinking eyes witness my past.
Moments when I was proud of myself,
Days of mischief and freedom.
I was free and innocent.
But look where I find myself now.
In a pool of dead fish,
Floating not to survive, but
To conform and be,
The one I am not.
I draw closer to see my face in the mirror,
But I only see the blurred vision of my future.

They say marriage is sacred.
Sacred because women conceive,
Because women rare children,
And because men order. 
I am free, not because it is easier to be
But because another person doesn't have the right to say that i'm not.
I reach out my hand to the reflection in the mirror,
Uniting myself to the another me.
Ceaselessly, transcending into the one I wish I was.

Sometimes I wish,
Being trapped into the mirror was easier to be.
I draw closer to see my reflection in the mirror,
But I only see the blurred vision of my future. 

Blended

The clouds cried over me
As I sat motionless in my car,
Surrounded by an army of vehicles 
Of similar making, but with people
Who were indifferent to my existence. 
I witnessed the water flowing down,
As I gained height and inclination at an over-bridge. 
I witnessed the droplets of water on the window. 
They rushed back, in resistance to a forward moving world.
And I was nothing but a mere spectator, 
To an enchantment called life.

Unusually wet it was for a Tuesday,
Unusually sunny it was for dense August rains.
It was a juxtaposition of elements, 
And I had never felt so physically repulsive to human race than before.

I felt like a wet log of wood refusing to burn.

My thoughts drove to me the cafe,
My escape from the chaos of the everyday.
I ordered a cup of coffee,
And eagerly waited till it reached me,
For empty single occupancy tables looked sadder than ever.
I pretended that I was interested in the decor,
Looking here and there, with lip and eye brow movements
Displaying my keen interest.
5 minutes felt longer than boyhood.
My coffee arrived- black coffee, my usual.
I starred at the coffee; it looked as dark as my life at the moment.
A sudden flashback of events- failed relationship, foreign education with no scholarship,
A shark-of-a-loan looming, a work life that was not blooming,
Ageing parents, increasing responsibility, 
Heavy shoulders of the eldest sibling, 
Lost and not found and social media de-linked.

I approached my first sip with a rewind reel.
The coffee tasted bad not because coffee is bitter,
Maybe it was my emotional state. 
A juxtaposition of elements. For a change,
I asked for milk, and then poured generously into the cup.
The black blended with the white into a creamish colour of middle position.
I watched how my spoon revolved round the cup, consciously turning
The colour into lighter shade.
I wondered, does it only take a conscious choice?
All it takes is milk to make it taste better?
The sugar container lay at one end of the table.
The coffee tasted better, 
But they say coffee gets increasingly better towards the end of the cup,
Where all the sugar lies.
I wonder if life is the same way as we approach the end,
Or is the milky way the escape.

Monsoon Musings

HALF WAY INTO ITS ORBIT,
AS EARTH SPINS ROUND THE SUN
DISTANCING ITSELF TOWARDS COLD NIGHTS OF WINTER,
THE CLOUDS BREAK SILENCE.
AN ORCHESTRA OPENS WITH A FAN FAIR,
OF THUNDER, SHOWER AND CLOUDS RETREAT.
MONSOON MARKS ITS MELODIOUS RETURN.

MEMORIES RUSH INTO ME TODAY
THE MONSOON MELODIES,
WHOSE MUSINGS HAVE FILLED MY EARS.
LIKE A REWINDING CASSETTE 
I'M TAKEN ABACK
ATTENTIVE AND PATIENT,
TO DAYS OLD AND NEW,
LISTENING TO SOUNDS THAT APPEAR,
AND DISAPPEAR, AS THE RAINS SHOWER 
AND THE SKY CELEBRATES ITS INTERIM DIWALI. 

I HEAR THE PAKORAS CRACKLING IN HOT OIL, 
AND TEA KETTLE FUMING MUTE. 
AN EVENING OF COOL BREEZE
AFTER A RAINY AFFAIR IN THE AFTERNOON. 
THE SUN SEEMED WET TOO, 
FOR THE DUSK HAD A VANILLA SKY. 
TEA SHOPS ABOUT THE CORNER 
HUSTLING IN CONVERSATIONS.
ORDERS MADE, BILLS PAID AND OFFICE UNCLES CRITICAL OF NEW VEGETABLE PRICES.

WALKING PAST BY A GREEN PLAYGROUND,
WITH AN UMBRELLA IN HAND
I WITNESS YOUNG BOYS PLAYING FOOTBALL.
MY EARS ABSORB SOUNDS OF SPLASHING MUDDY WATERS
FROM PAIRS OF FEET AFTER A BALL.
I HEAR SONGS OF VICTORY,
QUARRELLING TEAMS OVER FOULS AND
THE ANGRY GATEKEEPER, 
SHOUTING HIS LUNGS OUT TO END THE GAME IN INSTANT FASHION; 
"KEEP OFF THIS GROUND, IT'S PRIVATE PROPERTY"

I REMEMBER MORNINGS,
WHOSE PREVIOUS NIGHT HAD IT RAINED.
THE GRASS WAS WET,
SO WAS THE NEWS PAPER AT THE DOORSTEP,
AND THE MILKMAN WHO DELIVERED MILK.
SHOWERS AT NIGHT, 
SEEMED TO OPERATE LIKE NATURES AC.
THE SUN WAS RULED OVER ITS MIGHT,
AND IT WAS COOL AND BREEZY.
A STEP OUT OF THE HOUSE
AND YOU COULD SMELL EARTH FRESH.
I MISSED THE SUN THOUGH, 
AND RAINY DAYS WOULD SEEM A HEADACHE.
STUDENTS WITH UNIFORMS IN WHITE WOULD UNDERSTAND. 

CAME ACROSS A PHOTOGRAPH, 
AN OLD PICTURE OF SCHOOL. 
MONSOONS MEANT EARLY BREAK OF CLASSES
INTO AMAZEMENT OF THE GOOD GRACIOUS RAIN SHOWERS,
OR THE LATE ENDING OF THE LAST CLASS OF THE DAY
BECAUSE THE BELL KEEPER WOULDN'T GET WET
THE GOOD GRACIOUS RAINS SEEMED SUCH A PAIN THEN. 
WE SAT INSIDE CLASSROOMS LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOWS,
THE CLOUDS SEEMED TO BE GETTING DARKER.
TIME WAS AT THE ESSENCE.
THE SOUND OF THE BELL STILL RESONATES YEARS LATER. 

RAINY DAYS HAD MOSTLY EMPTY ROADS AND, 
BYE LANES LESS OCCUPIED WITH THEIR PARKING SPACE.
THOSE LANES BECAME MINI CRICKET GROUNDS. 
IN NO TIME DID THE WICKETS AND PLAYERS TAKE POSITION
AND A ONE DAY MATCH DURING AFTERNOON SHOWERS WAS IN ORDER.
A SHOT BEYOND THE BOUNDARY, 
MEANT CALLING OUT TO A PERSON AT THE BUS STOP
TO RETURN THE BALL.
THE ESTEEMED AUDIENCE AT THE BUS STOP PAVILION,
TOOK MUCH PLEASURE AT THE GAMES.
ENTERTAINMENT WAS FOR FREE,
THE TEA STALL, HOWEVER
CHARGED 5 RUPEES FOR TEA.

MONSOON DAYS AS SUCH,
BROUGHT REFLECTION AND MEMORIES TOGETHER. 
MUSINGS BOTH MUTE AND SENSUOUS
GIVEN LIFE IN THE MIND CANVAS.
SO UNTIL THE ORCHESTRA OF MONSOON CONTINUES,
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM,
DWELL INTO MEMORIES, REFLECT,
RESONATE, SING AND OBSERVE. 
FOR THE SUN SEEMS WET,
AND THE SKY VANILLA.
REJOICE AND LISTEN,
THE MONSOON SING IT'S A CAPELLA!

18 Days into July

IT WAS AFTERNOON,

AND THE SUN SHINED

WITH PRIDE OVER ITS VICTORY. 

GLORIFYING IT'S BRIGHTNESS

OVER THE LOSS OF SWEAT OUT OF OUR BODIES.

IT WAS 18 DAYS INTO JULY

AND I STILL WONDERED HOW QUICK 

THE 17 DAYS HAD PAST.

MY CURRENT LOCATION 

FORCED ME INTO THINKING 

THE UNTHINKABLE. MY SITUATION 

PULLED ME INTO LOOKING BACK AT PAST.

I WAS AT A FUNERAL, LUNCH.

FACES AROUND ME HAD MOSTLY 

BLINKED MORE THAN I DID.

FOR THEY WERE OLD, WITH WITHERED SKIN

IN GATHERING OF A FRIENDS, RELATIVES OR COLLEAGUES DEATH.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF DAYS WHEN PHOTOGRAPHS WERE BLACK AND WHITE 

BUT A SIGHT OF MADHUBALA WAS TREASURED IN COLOUR.

I WAS IN BETWEEN A PARADOX.

IN THE MIDST OF THIS,

I TURNED ROUND SEVERAL TIMES

OBSERVING FACES AND NOTICING HOW EVERYONE KNEW EVERYONE. 

BUT ONLY ONCE HAD I BEEN FORCED OUT OF MY CURRENT OCCUPATION. WHEN

A GIRL WALKED ACROSS THE HALL,

SMILING AND GREETING GUESTS. 

I FROZE ONE MOMENT AND UNFROZE THE OTHER.

I HADN'T SEEN ANYTHING LIKE HER.

SHE WALKED UP TO ME

AND ASKED ME TO MIND MY LEGS;

END OF FALSE HOPES.

SHE WALKED INTO MY ROW,

PARADING THROUGH CHAIRS

TO GREET AN OLD LADY WITH THE GRACE OF A YOUNG HEART.

IT WAS AN UNUSUAL FEELING AT A FUNERAL. 

I HAD AN ENTIRE ZOO MOVING IN MY STOMACH,

FORGET THE BUTTERFLIES ALONE.

18 DAYS INTO JULY FELT NICER ALL OF A SUDDEN.

UNDER A SUDDEN CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS,

SHE HAPPENED TO HAVE REALISED HER PHYSICAL REALITY.

I GLANCED AT HER MOVEMENTS FROM A DISTANCE,

AS SHE FLIPPED HER HAIR ONLY TO TIE THEM TOGETHER AGAIN.

HER DRESS OF WHITE WITH EMBROIDERED GREENS

PERFECTLY COMPLEMENTED HER HAIR 

WHICH SHINED LIKE WATER AGAINST SUNLIGHT, IN HUES OF GOLDEN DELIGHT.

THAT EARTHY, BROWNISH, HUED COLOUR HAIR

ON THE CROWNED FACE OF FAIR TONE.

SHE WORE AN OLD WATCH, 

I ASSUME PASSED DOWN.

VALUES AND MODERN NICHE,

HARDLY SEEN TOGETHER, LEST THE MOVIES.

SPRING FELT NEARER, COLOURFUL AS NEVER.

IT WAS UNUSUAL FOR A FUNERAL. 

A THOUGHT STRUCK ME.

AWAY FROM MY HEARTS FAILING CONDITION,

I WONDERED THE SOPHISTICATION OF THIS SITUATION.

HOW METAPHORICAL IT WAS.

DEATH MET WITH LIFE,

A YOUNG HEART SPRUNG IN ROMANCE,

ALONG A WEEPING WIFE.

SHE LOVED PLAYING HIDE AND SEEK.

APPEARING AND DISAPPEARING,

LIKE THE MOON ON A CLOUDY NIGHT. 

AS I SAT FOR LUNCH, THE FREQUENCY INCREASED. 

MY GASPS FOR AIR AND HER APPEARANCE. 

FOOD HAD NEVER SEEMED SO HORRIBLE,

MAYBE BECAUSE I WASN'T EATING ALL TOGETHER. 

UNLIKE THE OTHERS, WHO PRAISED IT'S TASTE AS SHE WENT AROUND ASKING.

COURTESIES OF THE HOST FAMILY. 

BUT IT WAS UNSETTLING, I KNEW THE HOSTS, 

AND SHE WAS NEVER PRESENT, UNTIL NOW.

THESE THOUGHTS OCCUPIED MY STOMACH MORE THAN DID THE FOOD.

I WAITED FOR HER TO ASK ME THE SAME, WITH A GRIN.

I HAD NEVER EATEN FOOD SLOWER THAN THIS. 

CHEWING EVERY BITE, PERHAPS 32 TIMES, HOPEFUL.

I WAS FULL AND MY PLATE WAS EMPTY, 

MY HANDS DRIED OF THE CURRY AND RICE ON TO IT.

I ROSE IN QUICK DESPERATION, 

AND HURRIED TO WASH MY HANDS.

WITHIN NO TIME, SHE WAS AT MY TABLE

ASKING OTHERS IF THEY WERE COMFORTABLE.

SOAP NEVER TOOK SO MUCH TIME TO GET OFF MY HANDS BEFORE. 

I LAUGHED AT MY LUCK AS I RETURNED TO AN EMPTY TABLE. 

SOON IT WAS TIME, 

I COULDN'T HAVE STAYED ON LONGER. 

FOR IT WAS A FUNERAL AND NOT EXTENDED CHILDHOOD BIRTHDAY PARTIES. 

I HOPED I SEE HER AGAIN, BEFORE DEPARTURE.

I LOOKED OUT AS FAR AS EYES COULD WANDER,

AND A SIGHT OF HER WASN'T VISIBLE.

UNHAPPY, I SOON FOUND MYSELF IN THE CAR PARKING. 

DOORS OPENED, I SAT 

AND I GLANCED ONE LAST TIME AS THE CAR DROVE AWAY.

SHE WAS AT THE ENTRANCE,

SHINNING LIKE WATER UNDER SUNLIGHT, IN GOLDEN HUES

MAYBE HOPING FOR THE SAME.

The Kites

THE INNOCENT AT 12,

THROWN AT LIFE TO DISCOVER.

A FRAGILE AGE OF

BORDERLESS EMOTIONS.

LEARNING OF THINGS THAT HE CANNOT EXPLAIN.

TOO SHY TO EXPRESS OR MAYBE TOO SHY OF A WORD.

HE WONDERS WHY, HE ADORES ‘HIM’ MORE THAN ‘HER’.

HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEART AT 18.

PRETTIEST EYES, WITH BEST GRADES.

THE MOST SOUGHT AFTER THROUGHOUT TEEN.

THE GUYS NEVER MISSED A CHANCE,

FROM DANCE, CHEESY LINES TO PEPPY TRANCE.

BUT HER EYES ONLY LOOKED 

OUT FOR ‘HER’ ROMANCE.

THE JOBLESS YOUNG AT 23

IN DENIAL OF REALITY.

BROKEN, MISERABLE AND GUILTY

OF STEPS TAKEN IN THE MIST OF YOUTH AND AMBITION.

IN A LOW VOICE HE SPOKE OUT TO HIM OVER PHONE,

FINDING PEACE WITH THE ONE HE HAD LEFT BEHIND.

THE BULKY GYM INSTRUCTOR AT 38,

DIVORCED BUT HAPPY. 

FOUND SOLACE WITH HIM. WITH HER

IT WAS CONFORMITY TO SOCIAL IMAGE.

OFTEN THEY COMPETE, 

GYM ROUTINES AND OTHER FEATS.

HE PREFERRED BICEPS TO CURVY WAISTS.

ALL THESE LIVES FAMILIAR AND SIMILAR,

FOR IT IS LOVE AND NO CRITERIA

A BOND AND NO HYSTERIA.

LIKE KITES THAT FLY IN THE SKY

FREE AND UNDIFFERENTIATED,

GIVING MEANING TO THE WIND THAT BLOWS.

LOVE QUALIFIES TO BE PRACTICED

FREE AND INDISCRIMINATE,

GIVING MEANING TO LIFE THAT GROWS. 

Abandoned

HIS FUTURE UNFOLDS. EVERYDAY,

AS SUNLIGHT TRESPASSES DARK SKY

TOMORROW SHALL BE A BETTER DAY

THAT COMFORTING THOUGHT; A LIE.

AT THE BREAK OF LIGHT

FROM THE LUXURY OF HIS OWN SELF.

LEGS PACE FOR GREEN FIELDS.

THE FACTORY SIREN, NOT THE COCK

SHIFTING GEARS OF HIS MERCILESS CLOCK.

WITH FOLDED HANDS

HE PRAYS AT DUSK. HOPING

FOR A LONGER NIGHT UNTIL DAYLIGHT.

HIS SMALL HANDS AT EASE AGAINST THE GREEN.

IN SILENCE HE FINDS HIS ANSWER. 

LIKE TOOLS OF CRAFTSMEN OFF WORK

ABANDONED HE LIES ON GODS PARCHMENT.

The Audacity to Hope

THAT LIES OUTSIDE,

IS OF EXOTIC BEING.

SAY PRIVILEGED GAMBLED BIRTHS.

UNFORTUNATE; WINDOWS OPEN TO SUDDEN MORBIDITY. YET

SOME EYES GLAZE SURPASSING ITS ARRANGEMENT.  

BEYOND THE GREY SCALE,

A PALLET OF COLOR.

LUSTROUS EYES MAKE A KINGLY CROWN 

ON A BODY DESTINED TO SERVE THE CROWN.

THE AUDACITY TO HOPE;

OF WARM LIGHT IN SHIMMERING COLD,

OF BETTER LIVES OVER ACCEPTED ROLES.

DAYS PAST STAGNANCY AND DEVOID.

FOR, THE OUTSIDE REMAIN MUTE

AND WINDOWS OPEN TO LIMITED REALITY.

HOPE DISTORTS WHAT THE EYE SEES , 

LIGHTING DARK LANES BEYOND REALITY.

Lover in Delay

TWO HALVES OF ONE,

LIKE SPLITTING SKIES AT FIRST LIGHT.

THE LOVER IN SPRING

AND THE HEAVY HEART OF AUTUMN. 

GRAVITY FELT UNLIKE SCIENCE,

CAPTIVATED OR AGGRAVATED

EITHER WAY, HEAVIER. SLOW MOTION

DAYS OF BLACK WHITE OR COLOUR. 

TIGHTROPE WALKING,

ON THE NEUTRAL GROUNDS IT LAY.

THE RISING SUN OR DISSOLVING MOON

PERSPECTIVES OF A LOVER IN DELAY.

TWO SIDES ALONG SILENT MIDDLE POSITION.

THE BETTER HALF OR AUTUMN DISPOSITION.

The Nightingale Child

PAUSING THE ACT

SHE DARES TO DREAM.

IN COMFORT OF HER INNOCENCE,

THE NIGHTINGALE CHILD.

DISTRUBED BY FRAGILITY

OF HER SLEEP

AND THE WEIGHT OF RESPONSIBILITY.

THE ELDER WEEPS.

HER AUDACITY TO HOPE

WARMER THAN CANDLES AND ROBES.

WHO IS IT EASIER TO BE?

THE DREAMER OR THE HOPEFUL

DEAR NIGHTINGALE CHILD

DREAM A DREAM, FOR

SLEEPS SHALL BE FRAGILE THEREAFTER.

BEYOND WONDERLANDS, YOU SOUGHT AFTER.

Foreground

OF SMALL SIZES AND MIGHT

FOREGROUND DELUSIONS OF FORM AND TOUCH.

FACE VALUED FIRST,

SOPHISTICATED LATER.

GRAINS GRAINED TO DUST

TITANIC HEAPS OF COLLECTIVE EXISTENCE.

DROPS MAKES AN OCEAN

SMALLS MAKE LARGER DENOMINATION.

THEN WHY DOUBT MY MIGHT

DON’T FACE VALUE MY SIGHT.

I AM THE BIGGER PICTURE

I AM THE OCEAN, OF COMPOSED TEXTURE.

UNDERESTIMATED AND DESIGNATED.

HUMILITY FINDS NO PEACE BEING ABDICATED.

Capitalist Light

LIGHT A POOR HOME,

WHERE DARKNESS DISSOLVES

AND SHADOWS PAINTED COLOUR.

BUT THE LIGHT, AN INTRUSION

POVERTY’S MAKE-BELIEVE SUSPICION.

LIGHT IS A DISCOVERY

MAN PACING ON CURIOSITY.

A STAMPEDE OF HOPES AND ABILITY

GOOD AND EVIL, RICH-POOR

ALL INVENTED, ACCEPTED PROPHECY.

TOUCHED BY LIGHT, THE POOR SEE

DARKNESS NOT LIGHT,

IS EASIER TO BE.

Spice Dust Nation

A MOUNTAIN OF SPICE DUST, FIRM GROUND

MASKED BY QUANTITY AND GEOMETRY

A SHAKE, A BREAK. IT RECEDES AWAY

SPARKLED AND FLAT, GROUNDS MAKE WAY.

NATIONS BUILT ON HISTORY

MYSTERY, SAFFRON CODE DIRECTORY.

TOO RIGHT TO BE CENTRAL

NATIONALISM PAVES WAY FOR THE NON-EXISTENTIAL.

DUST OF SPICES

ROCKS INTO HANDFUL SIZES.

CONSUMED AS PURE NECESSITY.

BURNING, EYES CRY OUT TOO, SPRAYED CRUELTY.

BEAUTY MASKS EVIL, PURE TRAGEDY.

A HEAP OF TRADITION, 

FALSE MODERN INCLINATION.

A BAGGAGE OF CULTURAL DRAMA.

FLAT DUST OCCUPIES SPACE TOO

WHEN MOUNTAINS ARE BEDDED OFF THEIR ARMOUR.

Aunties and Pavilions

OF THE ALLEYS AND CRIKET

DAYS OF SHORT PANTS AND SELF MADE WICKETS.

TOSSES WON OVER CHEAT,

ICE CREAM TREATS OVER DEFEAT.

WINDOWS SHATTERED, CARS DENTED,

THE USUAL AFTERNOON GAMES.

AUNTIES PHONE MOTHERS IN SUCCESION,

COMPLAINING. APOLOGIES FOR COMPENSATION.

ODD OR EVEN, SPLIT TEAMS

SEAMLESSLY THROUGH SHADES OF LIGHT.

THE BATERS BAT AND BOWLERS BOWL

AND UMPIRES DECISION’S OVERTHROWN.

THE PAVILION IS WHERE TIME GROWS YOUNG

LIKE ROMANTICS DELIGHT OF ARTISTRY.

MANY SUNS AFTER, I SHALL SEE

A PAST AND NOT A FALLACY.

SOAKED IN MEMORIES

OF THE INNINGS THAT ARE OVER.

BICKERING OLD AUNTIES FONDLY REMEMBER

THOSE DAYS, NOW THAT WE ARE OLDER.

Autopilot Ambition

MANY SHIPS, MANY CAPTAINS.

MANY RIPPLES IN THE OCEAN SHPERE.

ANCHORED SHIPS CAST MASTS TOO,

OF STAGNANCY, WONDERING WHERE TO STEER.

A JOURNALIST, NOT A WRITER.

A VETENARIAN, NOT ANIMAL WELFARE.

AN ENGINEER, NOT LEGO.

A BANKER, “DON’T LET THAT OPPORTUNITY GO”

SOME SHIPS ON AUTOPILOT,

DRAGGED IN ANCHORS ACROSS OCEAN FLOOR.

WAKE UP CAPTAIN! A PREMONITION.

STORMY AND TIDAL;

HUMAN, MONEY MAKING EXPEDITIONS.

EATING UP YOUR FANCIFUL AMBITIONS.

The Pantry Car

WHITE, BROWN, ASHY AND GOLD.

COSTUMES OF EARTH THROUGH HOT AND COLD.

DISTANT DISTANCES BEYOND PEBBLES THROW,

GOING PLACES SINCE 24.

THE TRAIN HALTS AT A STATION.

CITY OF KEBABS, OF GREAT REPUTATION.

HUNGER PLAYED TRICKS.

THE PANTRY CAR SMELLED EXOTIC.

FLAVOURS FAMILIAR, YET OLD.

THE PREPARATION WAS KNOWN.

MEMORIES, EVENTS AND TANTRUMS THROWN.

THE DISH TOOK ME BACK.

“HOME SOON”; IT PACED ON TRACK.

Classroom

OPEN DOORS WELCOME ME,

BUT I HAVE NO WINGS TO FLY.

PAIN AND MISERY SURROUND ME,

REASONS I DONT DENY.

WHAT WRONG HAVE I DONE?

MY LIFE HAS JUST BEGUN.

I WANT TO FLY HIGH.

“HOW MUCH?”

10 FOR BISCUITS AND CHAI.

500 A MONTH CLIPPED MY WINGS,

EVEN BEFORE I TRY.

Mirage

THE WORLD IN HIS EYES,

AND AN EMPTY STOMACH.

LIKE STARS AT NIGHTFALL,

AMIDST SPILLING CLOUDS.