April

A drop of rain hurtles down my brow
Or sweat? 
I know not
I am drenched
It never rains in April
They say April is the cruellest month
I was born in April
They say I am cruel

I feel a sensation. Surprise,
Cruelty screams.
A tingling behind my ears.
It can't be sweat. Must be rain
That can't rein it its unruly drops
And crashes like a chandelier
Dimly lit, now dying
All over my body
It doesn't feel like anything
Of the past. Unpleasant. 
It is. At once historical. Pleasant.
It feels like nothing.
Imagine a crash
In vacuum. I can't.

Last spring - 
Well April is not spring
May be it is in England
But they still call it cruel - 
I built a house
And instated that chandelier
It wasn't necessary
April is bright. Sunny.
Dry. Wicked. Warm, already.
I would rather it were cold
As cold as I am now
I am shivering. I normally do.
When cold, yes. But
Mostly when nervous. With people
In spotlight.
Today, it is gray. Like snow.
Imagine snow.
In April. I can.
I am shivering. As anyone would.
Warmth? Snow? April.

It was a small villa. Concrete. 
And wood. And lot of glass
Transparent. The French windows. 
My heart? Not quite.
Brittle. The window panes
My heart? Leaden.
Cold. Like snow in April
Guests like warmth.
My April was chilly. Cold to the bones.
I don't like guests.
None visited my house.
Until one. Became permanent.
I realized. Mirrors,
And her eyes.
One and the same.

My home was in the woods.
Lonely. Dark. Deep.
I made promises. I wanted to keep.
So I built a keep inside,
Deep inside, my heart. 
My home.
It was warm. 
Like a spotlight. I become 
Nervous. Shivered
In the warmth. 
As much as would melt
The glass of my villa
So I locked it. The keep
And with it, my house
My home. My heart.

April reminds me of many things.
A scent of dust
Entangled in her hair
Clouding her eyes. And my judgement
I can't see through the smell
I am allergic to dust. That always shone
On her face. 
It was raining then.
And the unruly drops
Singed the dust from my face.
I could see clearer. My house.
Not her, though.
It rained. The cold reached my bones.
I wanted to run for my keep
Yes, the one deep inside
Myself. So deep. I ran.
I lost my way. In that labyrinth.
I am wandering.

I came out with the sun
And the snow. I had been inside
For more than eternity
It feels fresher. The dirt
Has all but vanished
And I can see through
As far as my eyes would let me
I can't see just her still. 
Just a face
In the snow.
I reach our for it, but it melts.
And with it, my villa
My house, my home
I hate snow. I start shivering
I am aware. Conscious. Nervous.
No one can see me. I shed a tear.
A warm drop of water. From my eyes
That are now transparent
Singes the snow.
I look inside myself. 
The sun helps.
I see the keep.

I hurtle down the tunnel. Yes the tunnel.
One that I dug up to the keep
To keep my promises safe
And memories. And her.
I can't see her. 
I remember the melting snow.
I reach out for the doors.
There seem to be none. 
But I can't feel
Obstruction. 
My palm goes right in.
And come back right out. Is it there?
I pick up the stone nearby. Feels heavy
Not as heavy as the lock. 
Sealed with promises, with more inside. Of more inside.
I am in a quandary. Over my promises
To not break promises. To always keep
But I can't remembers most. 
I can't see most. Inside the keep. Those.
I have to break the lock. With it, promises
Who says promises were ever kept
When in a keep, with a lock.
Of promises. I break some.

With them, the spell of cold.
Gushes forth the smell of dust
Wrapped in promises made. Yonder.
Long forgotten now. Rendered meaningless
Reaching for the sun. Slapping me down.
Like those rains in April. 
But blunt. Lethal.
I decide to move beyond the gray.
I get a chandelier for my keep
My villa, my house, my heart
And never to lock any
I want visitors. Ones that heal
The wounds of these rains
And scars of these promises
And myself. She tried. I didn't let her.
I let go. She melted. With the snow.

People like brightness
My chandelier gives them. When not silver
I have people. Visitors. Welcome guests.
And past. One that always makes its way
Into my villa, my house, my heart, my keep
When it snows. I resist the urge. 
Cold. Reaches my bones.
I don't bolt the door. It becomes cold.
People think I become cold.
They leave me. Alone.

This April, it was windy.
I left the door ajar. The winds ravaged
My villa. My chandelier. My self.

Sonnet XXXII: Frost

It's not tough, not being who I was

Nor tough it is to wear a mask

Of stoic countenance, because

I can. I can as much as ask

You, leave me for what I've become,

And tread alone to promised lands

We once believed existed, home

To quaint emotions. But these sands

Of time are cold, is cold this gust

Of wind that peels away all day,

All night, what's left of my unjust

Visage, no more untrue they say,

Than flaky, white, October frost.

For me, I know I've loved and lost.

Sonnet XXXI: The Brook

I know that churlish brook that by the day
Tiptoes behind the woods unto the sea
Of endless questions. By the night to play
A spade and quarry all and more it'd be

Some gravel, mostly shiny, and some clay,
A handful broken twigs from underneath
A stoic vignette fighting to convey
The blooming buds atop a sombre wreath

It takes them all to sea through trough and crest
I wonder if it tired of the weight
Or if indeed it's this it was to be

And set afloat a boat atop its breast
Which sails on with the sun, I watch and wait.
They say this brook / boat will go on endlessly

Boomerang

I don't particularly cherish memories.
Bygones. 
I feel nauseated. 
Good memories are far too good for me 
To enjoy. 
And far too few 
To take note of. 
The more painful ones 
Offer some consolation. 
They are not many either. 

I guess I never thought 
Of registering  incidents in my brain 
As they occurred. 
I scour those leftovers 
And chew on them. 
Like a dog chews a meatless bone. 

I am mostly indifferent
Sometimes hopeless. 
I have been lucky to have people around me. 
I am nasty. 
I once used to be popular. 
I was never friendly
Not with strangers
I once used to be a rogue. 
I was a nobody. 
All my life.
I think I was mostly a conformist. 
A strictly passive romantic. 

Sometimes I feel robbed. 
Sometimes I feel incredibly light 
Without the burden of happiness
Or the weightlessness of guilt.
I feel robbed.
Mostly.

Sometimes I feel a heap
Of expectations inflicted 
By self.
Or disregard for them
I carry a weight of weightlessness
My steps have spring
Ones that I want 
Ones that would someday propel me 
Outside of this Earth
The earth is full of people

People are nauseating
People are memories
People become friends
I have lots of them
I had lots of them
I met lots of them
I created lots of them
I imagined lots of them
I can't recollect most
Perhaps any
I think I am a nobody

People fall in love
With themselves. Mostly.
Sometimes with others
And then fall out of love
They say love is curiosity
They say love is foolishness
They say love is foolhardiness
My family loves me
They are not fools

People cry (I don't). 
I don't cry because I don't want to
Over memories
I wish I had memories
I wish I felt like crying
It is difficult to know something and not experience
Love. Sex. Dhokha.
I have received lots of love
My family loves me
I reciprocate

I cried once. When I was uncertain
Uncertain of myself
But I was never more certain
Because I knew I was uncertain
I am always uncertain
But I am never aware
Maybe I am. But I never acknowledge.
That I cried. I want to. 
Cry. Acknowledge.

I am strong from the inside
Strong as an elephant
Elephants remember stuff
I feel stuffed. 
Like a toy elephant.
Is it memories?
I wish I had a closet
I could clean it regularly
And stuff it regularly
With the elephants in my brain

I am sorry
For most things I have said to people
I know people hate me
I know people love me
I know someone loved me
More than most
I reciprocated
Like to reciprocate
To my family

But there is an elephant
That needs a lot of room
I have a small brain
Small enough to hide myself
Small enough to hide that someone
Small enough to be ignored by the world
But the world never ignores
There is a God who sees everything
In addition to the world

The world does not forgive
It chooses what to forget
The world is a bad place
I was born into this world
Am I a bad place?
Am I in a bad place?
I am afraid. Am I a coward?
But there is a God
I have faith in God

I am not a God fearing man
I used to pray as a kid
Sincerely
Because I was told to
I started enjoying
I forgot suddenly why I prayed
I stopped
But I fear God. He knows I am writing this
He makes me write this

He makes me meet people
People I like. People I end up loving
People I don't enjoy
He makes me yearn for some
He makes me forget some others
I like the flux. I wish had more control
God is an autocrat
I was born in a democracy
I am confused. God makes me feel this way
God is a cheat

God created man in his own image
God is a cheat
Man is a cheat. So are women.
I am an advocate
Of gender equality. Man equals Woman. Vice versa
Woman is a cheat.
But it helps. In exams. In love. In life.
I did not cheat. Except in exams. And life.
My woman did not cheat.
Nowhere.

I am afraid I am not making sense
I will lose my reader.
The reader who has already lost me.
Lost my purpose. I don't care.
I am avant garde.
I am progressive. Just not enough
I have leapt
And come back
To the same place
Boomerang.

Sonnet XXX: Distance

I long to hear that prickly din before

The sickly sun surrounds this sooty space

I call my home. A home without the floor

To make a bed or dream of dreams to chase

I left myself behind a while ago

To sit atop the tiny wall I’d built

Around my home, in white, awash, aglow

And take a plunge to rid me of the guilt

The guilt that I would know not what it meant

To step outside and never to come back.

Now far enough, I’m as serene as spent

To ever hear that din of white and black

What distance is as far enough from self,

As one that questions whither you belong?