Meticulously planned nightmares
is that what you feed,
obsolete, after the drowning
isn’t it? Faith has no
birth marks,
neither any twin.

Headhunting, was that the
magical potion, added in ratios
of four? Sacrilege!
The skin held inverted
pinpricks, anodes and cathodes;
the body is battery,
charged beyond circle of confusion
only then it wallows
to the heeds of broken bones,
foretold mutations,
confessional faiths and
handwritten crimes.


I couldn’t hold the sunshine in me,
only the warmth of afternoon
which didn’t shy away
even in the haze of winter,
which engulfed the city
like never before.

Or maybe I let my thoughts
paint the canvas of the city
with colors of white.
I left it to overexpose
and the bright sun
wasn’t brightest anymore
and the print turned into
a giant sheet of white-
void of any borders or textures
void of existence,
which couldn’t hold back time

The loss of time
etches memory intricately
much like a miniature painting
depicting sultans and sufis
and paradise.

Loss of time
is yours too,
when I take off
my plastic electronic watch
and let the sounds of Ghazal
decide when the dusk enters the house,
decide if the time for goodbyes is here yet.