Tuesday, November 01, 2005


in the evening the city moans
a cesspool of emotions gone dry
fleeting connections all around
too fickle to give time to try

in the simmering crowd
on the bustling street
the allusion of a thousand souls
there is no one to meet

fighting the daily battles
burnt and scarred every time
I fall into a wakeful sleep
as a solitary watch I have to keep

in the privacy of my hell
I make war with my daemons
like the moth with his wings burning
no glory, no escape to the summons

but soon the rain brings
new moths and new flowers
the ghosts and daemons
washed away by the showers

the cycle continues
distilling me every time
as I make my way
through the ancient doorway

the temple falls silent
the priest has fled
who is there, now that we are free
but you and me


Shrikant Joshi said...


Should I run a spell check? On second thoughts, forget it...

Nice thoughts... Nice poem...

quasi said...

well it was unintentional, but I guess I like it. ;) rather fits in. my demons are daemons...

Vivek Rao said...

very cool poem bro

inane said...

I cannot believe you wrote that, quasibaba