A home coming

Yesterday was a long day in Calcutta. I prefer this name than the newer one with a dash of Bengali tradition. The city of life was tired after an interlude of weekend. I didnt take the train to avoid the known faces.
These faces have once gifted the manna of silences. Now the silences are hard to take. They have aquired voices that haunts. Haunts me even in my sighs. Irked with the himesh numbers, i saw the life with a difference. The difference that created an emptiness.
There are certain reasons that dont have explanations. I dont try to seek them. Some answers dwell in the hearth of throat that can neither be swallowed nor can come out.
People are scared of loneliness, the loneliness that intervenes in your private self. A self that crawls with the diurnal courses of life. A loneliness that denies the urge to be with the recognized self of you and me.

July

July is the house of departure,
Not to abide the over whelming question of -
anonymity
July is the month of viola,
Covering the rain kissed hillocks.
July breeds pensive words,
To decay in a flooded mind.
July is you,
July is me.
It creates letters of Torah,
This seventh hearth of my year.
July lets me wounded-
Bleeding silently for more.
Yet July speaks,
In a language
I can never learn.

Immaturity

Immaturity

words that are neither here nor there
letters that fly from terrain to terrain
shall not pass the seal of life
the flow sans destination
is a flow called life
My days of last supper
Is coming back to life
My chalice is empty
Your words drown
in the twilight of distance
A distance that succumbs
My reason of life