nightingale

a long wait,

for the roof, I call home,

for the mellow rain overhead,

on all levels except physical,

I stroll through a park on the hills,

wild roses of which offer a glimpse of grandmother's love for her man,

when he went the whole nine yards towards the summit.

her tunes give elocution to a mute hometown child,

her drawings cushion a vulnerable pair of eyes with hues.

mornings refuse to wake till she sings,

midnights echo tales of lost history.

every city, every avenue I run,

both outside and inside,

with agonizing patience,

i will always find my way back home.

                                                 - isha

what do we call this day?

picture this:

humans toiling over sincere projects,

far from acting like pieces of work,

inching towards generosity,

without breathing in abysmal notions.

but with egotism ensnaring me,

what do I paint this with?

I want to live in strength and spright,

but you keep modifying me

with reality possessing dying embers.

away from cynical manipulations,

I want to eyeball people drowning themselves in nobility,

not setting in motion the vicious cycle of qualms,

in which diplomacy illustrates the opposite of oaths taken.

I want to evolve,

but you keep modifying me.

                                                -isha

pearls to dust

not forever wanders the day,

when the sky's at its bluest,

in mild shades of summer,

with trees at their greenest.

hanging leaves not forever quiver, 

through the howling wind of chime,

light of the sun grows dim,

like the grudges you hold prime.

not forever is your breath robbed,

when damp pages flutter on dusty guitars,

not forever caresses the breeze,

nor do the nights devoted to counting stars.

                                                            - isha

past 6:30

it's gray in a city this vivid,

the pauses and delays, furls and frenzies,

dreams take a twisted route,

according to her whims and fancies.

bare hands pen down their stories,

as the last ray fades,

while burning the midnight oil,

our fraught splinters build grim grenades.

it's sick in this city slow on remorse,

lessoning me to bet on myself without fail,

crashing into chaos on stops and slopes,

pedestrian lanes are growing pale.

jumbled work jostles for attention,

and hustling leaves a hundred scars,

we sweep the dirt under a rug,

stashing musings in glass jars.

on sullen dusks, ever so slightly,

some hearts yearn for a leap,

in a city so sour, 

remembering to tread lightly,

those breaths collapse in a sobbing heap.

                 - isha