Existence

You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even strangers know that,

they don't know me.

But you have declared, in an instance that,

you know me, like I am nothing.

As if I am nothing more

than a wall notice you had read.

As if with a meter scale you can,

assess me like the stumps you had seen.

As if with a plain gaze you can see across,

like the rivers you had met.

As if with a stone you can throw me down,

like the fruits you had tasted.

You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even the strangers know what epics are,

what trees, the ocean, or the stars are.

And you know me?

Did you know that I do not exist?

Or that I lied?

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[This poem is previously published here]

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Torso

A POEM.

The thing I drew was a female.

The thing was as if in a mirror,

someone standing in between-

me and my art: a female thing.

The thing was only a thing,

as it had no hands to clasp,

and no legs to part;

a torso: on which I can work-

my inmost sensuous spark.

I made her nothing short of-

an exhibition piece.

The pride I had was that of a 'creator';

conceiving,

constructing,

controlling.

But the pride died quickly,

and the corpse turned into lust.

The only thing I found in her as lack,

was the place for me to enter.
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[This poem is previously published in BOOKSIE ]

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