Works of RK

As you move from being an institution in my mind to just another person, all those definitions and all those expectations, too, transition through time. You for me Are like an old world Talkie Where once, small town movies Played to uncouth rustic folks like me. I romanticize my pain And I glorify my losses. All movies that played here In my mind, Were blockbuster movies And all actors Were characters From my little life with you. Once we down the shutters For long enough in time Time would cure me Of my countryside memories Of whistling of the trains And the running in the rain. I will remember you Like I want to You will forget me Like you are wont to.

If a drop could color an Ocean You my dear, Would be that drop And my life an endless                                Expanse of you.

  In the little lies I tell myself Lying awake late into nights Between sheets as cold As your last remembered gaze I find myself thinking about you In endless hellish loops. Wind in your hair The Sun in your eyes The gloss, the glitter And the sudden burst Of laughter... And then everything Turns bitter If only there was one Death Like the last blip  On a matrix like screen And then N.o.t.h.i.n.g...

These Tribal colors are alluring. Bright reds interlaced with dark of the greens. The beads, the shimmer of coarse native silk and the anticipation of making a sale, in Pinky Das' eyes! Madam will be very happy, she said. The stole will go well with the beads . I keep buying stuff Imagining That someday you will walk in And ask for them. I keep living Forgetting That the leather case from last year And the mustard silk batik from last month Remain cocooned in their shells Awaiting redemption From their misery Of being with me.

I looked at the rampage on the pages. Words scribbled in search of redemption And stricken off by sins of despair. Surely, this is not the promised road to Elysium. Nothing would grow Out of these half bled out pages and an ancient pen. I have to go out into the world and seek my redemption. - - - - These open windows Let streaks of sunlight drift in Reeking of her light

The earth is so withered  From its longing for you The reeds of your memories Have shriveled dry and bled Into parchments of forever tales. Now my dear, There will no longer Be any death for you

When it was time for her to go, it was also time for me to let go. Once an irritant is washed out, they say you can start seeing better immediately. All that stupid tears and all that rubbing of the soul, until your eyelids would cry out, no more, no more.  And then, just like that, one fine day, I wake up, and she was gone.   As the train chugged out The tracks cried out in senseless creaks of half despair Hear the poem here