We have lost touch and sense of those close to us—
the scent of flowers and rain seems to be a distant memory,
the unfiltered open laugh is just a pretense
the unfettered thoughts have been dungeoned in the corner of our minds,

In ruination of our own opinions and dearth of approval,
have we crept in to wear longer hours of solitude—
a shallow priced self esteem looms over,
we tidy and tailor our demeanor only to appease those that surround us

Oh, what world hath become!
We gnaw at our own happiness; creasing upon pages of bliss found in little connections,
we are confound and caught in our own man made puzzle—
while most of us, devour upon joys found in seeking and preserving validation.

– Shweta Kher


Crimson red soaked in a glass of wine,
you flavour the moods of everlasting longingness,
with a heart so inanely simple and generous
I remember you in my tipsy appearances

Strands of gold, you dazzle and shine,
never shying away from the charisma you wear
drawing me thus, closer
and the faint smile you not -so- subtly carry,
lingers upon your cherry red lips,
I remember you and feast upon deceiving ideas

Creases of yellow and of orangish red,
a flare of light burning—
the unwavering passion that you cause within me,
I remember how I am to remember you

Blue like water,
beaches and the resonating sound of waves that greet us ashore,
where the sands meet—my heart soils into this unknowing ache dropping a beat less steadier;
the rhythm of my strung heart is no more in compliance
I remember you in my deceptive self

Perhaps, this memory I make of you
is not the memory I am to picture;
for this strung heart is a fool of romances and ideas that never seem to subside
I remember you and feast upon it
In my, for my, deceiving ideas glorify.

-Shweta Kher


We bequeath ourselves to it each time and upon its realisation—we are fettered by the chains of happenstance and incidents,

A feeling more intensely and elaborately felt,

previous in its time— it precedes each time and hits with a greater intensity than once ever felt,

An expectation taking a wrong expedition,

belonging everywhere and to each one,

it has its own time,

to move and pass through;

for such time has to pass by,

it is a word that carries weight of a heavier thing than we used to know.

– Shweta Kher


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

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


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


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,


– Shweta Kher


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


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