THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I stand here facing the horizon, Counting the kisses, Maybe not, maybe yes What are you thinking? My hands are burning Are you still choking? Come, let's stay here a little while, You ,me and your wings of colour. Our loneliness keep us moving, Fail me not in deciphering you You still stay numb and cold Breaking the twigs Making a fuss. Maybe not, maybe yes. I showed you, The twinkling eyes of woodpecker. But you, You made me listen to the songs of nightingale. Maybe not, maybe yes. Your wild smell And the breezy air Is holding me back from return. Your wings of fruits And the choppy waters Are promising a home for me. Your wildness wonders me spilling around me After every drizzle. Come hold my hand, Let me know you, Let me walk along you, Cuddle me close Your blues and greens and yellows And their symphonies Cause the death of my body And float my soul. Maybe not, maybe yes. Your lullabies with nuances Of a spell, Make me guilty. Unleas

Somewhere between love and hate, I created a space to breathe, A space of magic and madness. Somewhere between earth and sky, There remains a time of unconditionals, Where rulebooks and laws are invisible, Where timelessness hovers in the air pridely proselytizing music of another realm. And yes, When my existence lies somewhere Between shackles and wings I run to a space where Tulips never die and Lilies never bloom And then,where will you find me? You will search me in all realms Of imperfection's journey to perfection. But how long can I stay there? I go to the labyrinth of Years of tangled emotions, Where tears get injected to smiles And death to life. Unable to differentiate them, I grow into a tree of knowledge. When the sun grows thicker and brighter, You will find me In the midway between heaven and hell. Standing between bondage and breakage of nature, Baffled and uncertain, Will you be the serpent or the God? A.C

The eyes of the stories are bulging Out of the cracked windowpane, Searching for a listener. Stories with bindis on their foreheads are striking a pose With their saree pallu. Stories are lurking From the car glasses, Waiting to bump into someone. The lost generation's stories Being trapped between the bedroom walls, Started nagging for release. Shuttered by the binding forces, Stories demand antidepressants. My stagnant love and evident hatred has different stories to tell, Like the flying kite and its manja. The breaking bones and breaching laws scream stories of torture. The multifaceted tapestry and cutlery propose stories of subjugation and indifference. Romanticised stories demand a stripping, And pink stories argue for another clothing. When King Lear laughs at his own story, Poor Tom dances at another story. The blood reaches out and shares his story, The heart beats at an umpteen number of stories. The adventurous story of runaway bride and The