no one reads my blog

unarranged pieces of dreams
on the table;
cards of tarot,
and a smoked out ciggerate.
strewn, used matchsticks;
pieces of charred memory.
filled, yet faded out
pages of decade old diaries.
dusted with ghosts of dried flowers,
gifted by lovers.
...and amongst all that,
a silhouted picture of me
against some forgotten landscape.
inside locked doors of a highrise apartment
in the suburbs of a metro

waiting to be torchedin a mob frenzy
my religion folowed unto
my total anhilation

suraj se chup rahi hoon...
woh chand ko jaake bata dega ki
kal shaam bhar main roi
chupke andheron mein...
par parchaiyon ne use bataya..
kaise pani ke katre unpe girke bikhar jaate
kaise ab chand aake chumke le nahi jaat unhe aur

ya shayad ab suraj ko hi mujhse pyaar ho
ab woh hi dard na dekh sake mera
ab woh shayad chand ko kuch nahi kahega
ya shayad kabhi mile bhi na usse
dhalti hui shaam ke baad suraj udaas ho jaata ho
mujhe chukar dekhna chahta ho...

raat ko jab main fir se ro padu
to chand ko ab parak nahi padta..
uski chandni mehakti hai
ab nadiyon ki chamak mein
saahil pe chamkati hai woh roshni
meri pyas ....pyas hi reh jaati hai