/सिर्फ मर जाना ही मरना नहीं होता/

ख्वाबों के बक्से को ताला मार

जब आँखें मूंद कोई सोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

खीज में जी कर ख़ुद को भुलाकर

जब ख़ुदी में छिप कोई खोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

आईने में एक चहकता बच्चा देख

जब उम्र के बीज कोई बोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

टहनी से गिरा एक पुष्प लाचार सा

जब मुसाफ़िर की बाट कोई जोहता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

मर्दों की बसाई इस दुनिया में

जब कोने में बिखर कोई रोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

नैतिक दबाव में परछाईं भी भूल

जब अस्तित्व का भार कोई ढोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

दिल से दिल के शातिर व्यापार में

जब इंसा से पुतला कोई होता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है



In the most still moments

The unignited fires

Rise amidst the blues

The tranquil night

With all its grey might

Longs for serendipity

And I,who desire,

Stand on the boulevard

Of untrodden desires

Of the incomplete drafts

Only to bury them

Seal them

And later, transcreate them

Step by step

With deluded dusty stanzas

Wrapped in crawling desires

In a different, incomplete draft


Have you ever felt so

Comfortable in your


And in your


That you can’t fathom slight tint of

Grey ?

Have you ever enjoyed the

Warmth of nonchalant


And the serenity of


Just to complacently

Defy the songs of


Have you ever longed for

The despicable


And the lusty


To smudge your soul


Have you?

Note : Try not Rupi Kauring this,plis.


Unlike my last act of sanity ,where everything required consent,this was different.This defied pragmaticism. 
I swam through..all the way through,fighting my dizzy senses with utmost glibbery,just to ascend my conscious form.

With unserene thoughts joining cynicism in colossal range,I had a perfect recipe of kissing death,several times.

An enigma had my demons beg for more,crave for more.Poised with the unbounded falsary ,I didn’t want to understand.

I let go of myself,melted into the intimidating scenery.

I fell for the art in her.

Didn’t know my fear was the last thing I’d be begging to face. Didn’t want to understand.

I fell for the art in her.

Never saw the moving poetry,never was lucky enough. Never saw rage as a poetic device,never was disgusted by the quiescence. Never wanted to slip into the depths of puzzles. Never wanted to not to understand it.

I fell for the art in her.

And then I open my eyes only to realize that the fight of fighting reality with dreams was a fiction too.

Time demands seclusion and nonchalant environment for sinking the sadness in,but she won’t let me do it.

I truly fell for the art in her.

She is permanently tattooed in my mind,inscribed on my soul and framed in my heart like a photograph.

Funny thing this mind,creates a perfect memory and fiction.

So when I close my eyes,she is there. 

She is there..still in a photograph taking me far away from the very reality I despise.

I too had a dream..