DUST AND WIND

​The mist

the glow

and the ruddy pink sky sails 

befalling us, one all, in a pit of emotions

that we seek to preserve

not to alone perish and die
Unbidden thoughts
dawn over

following tumultuous waves that greet us,

sending us lullabies of a far away land we seek to pursue

not to alone perish and die
Humans are we,

our bodies linger and ache

over the graves of people we were once tethered to

bound by sentiments 

we cry

for death may cost us

not to alone perish and die. 

– Shweta Kher

Advertisements

LOVE, MAYBE 

The grass imbued stains of our dear days;
whilst we lay together through this lonesome night,

I held on to the collar of his white cotton shirt,

toying the ends of it,

we talked endlessly into those stars that bore our heavenly bodies

To momentary happiness that lies within;

we all know it somehow

we guile ourselves to reach this end

we stray amidst the same

don’t you ever learn, love?

And there was I,

pledging us our tales of vow

that never stay the same

I knew—the guilt tricked us each time,

for every good has an end too.

– Shweta Kher

SILLY, FICKLE HEART OF MINE

Is this how we have come to love

past those insecurities, that we shred ourselves daily

propagating our so called chaste love,

while we lust more than we come to love

and we cry,

for the fear beckons our loss

it is a loss, 

to have found love this way

it is no gain, 

for we endure such pain 

We seek love for the mere cravings that surface our ever longing desires,

for it is a loss that summons us on the insides, 

And there are some of us who love only to endure such pain

the claim that we hold so dear;

we often delude ourselves and habituate to this faulty notion that we seek comfort in,

or perhaps we like to somehow

Oh dear, 

you foolish heart of a fellow!

shall we come to love ever

I wonder not,

Never. 

 – Shweta Kher

LITTLE THINGS

I walk in with my briefcase,
It’s past ten o’clock
smothering myself with about a hundred mugs of coffee,
I snigger at my sloppy self to stay up

I don in my best suit,
mismanaging my little briefcase
I pull over a knot atop my head
A hair bun, as it suggests and shabby as it looks,

My fingers tremble,
drumming them over my briefcase,
I tune in—
a sound of nervousness,
I pass on a haste smile,
Maybe just to look a little less coy

My eyes dilate to every minute the hand moves,
I move along with trepidation,
taming every bone in my body

The clock strikes eleven,
I hear my name being called up
“Next, you’re up”

These are the little things,
Little things like this,
In that hour, I grow up.

-Shweta Kher

A MISHAPPEN TALE

Leaves rustled,
followed by the mighty gusts of the wind,
There was a man walking along the sidewalk

Nature bereaved for him,
silent in its speech—
it paid reverence

He stood with his hands affixed to the pockets of his oversized coat,
It was a cold afternoon;

Loss consumed him in its entirety,
attacking his predicament,
He was an old man—
of a young lost son

Pepper salted hair and his scruffy beard suggested a week’s desolation,
or perhaps more

Such untold calling of misery clouded over him,
The man grew older as the streets neared to his home

In this planet that we live,
bearing our lives to meat and bones that eventually decay and soil underground

Where the seasons change;
leaving no trace of remains
unknown, unseen, unheard
are tragedies of those that prevail.

-Shweta Kher

MEND, MY SOUL

A voice stirred behind me, listlessly, and filled with languid air I turned to see A face so wan, crafted of such emotion particularly that of pathos, A heart that has been scarred, bent and broken, both— Grave eyes, that dug in so deep into…

IN RUINS

You left me in a thousand broken pieces, that are nowhere to be found I wailed searching for those eyes that once met mine, I waited for you to knock at my door and soothe away this pain Agony held me into its arms, the…