01.
Perhaps Art is a lie
And may be poetry is even more
But quiet tragically,
For the all word breathing noise makers,
In the middle of their own lines and lives
There is always a magnificent
Cliffhanger written by a hand
That doesnʼt know
The art of erasing

Isnʼt it amusing
That, to conceal one liar-art
You need to learn another…?

Now, you can complain about
All these deleted affairs of make and break.
Where crisis is not about “who”
But always “why”

Blank (—————)

001.
At times all of us can be
A prolific unreliable narrator
Of our own,
Just here and there
Just here and there
With or without a Psycho pomp
To buy a minute
For all the “Alice” Of inside
And you never know
How can you get a glance?
Of the things you know never existed
Like a beautiful expressionistic way of
Leading a life-lived…
Creating a happy death
Where it is nothing more
Than a nudistʼs sense of dressing..!

Blank (————-)

0001.
The sound of ticking clock
Is louder than carpet bombs
Since it doesnʼt stop
Not even for the big brother
And it is disturbing to find that
There is no place like Summerland
And curtain creativity is just a myth
As you can only see it falling
To cover up the largest Gulag..

Blank (————)

0001.
It is all about being a solitary –pallbearer
For carrying a body made of snow and earth
For all the controlled chaos
Being too old to live
Too young to die
Waiting for the beginning of time
Accepting, somewhere in this universe
It creates and destroys itself
For its most magnificent failure
Forever and ever

Art may be a lie
May be poetry is even more
And hands may never learn erasing,
The garden of water
In the middle of our own ruin,
But just for the sake of lifting
An another curtain,
Breathing one more hopelessly
Forbidden word is
The everlasting Truth-
And it is not blank anymore.