Begins here, the Sunday evening poetry conclave—
the words and cadences resolve into perfect peace.
they will stay with you, a balm to your soul
pulses of vocal fire, the alphabets blip into a darker space.
 
Nights curl up on the courtyard, feel of a gothic afterworld
return to instinct; the underpass embraces syllables.
memories glide the celestial glory, in those smoky hills
in dreams stories leap into the canvas of lies.
 
There are lonely moments that shed torn petals
the town and village turn into unknown foliage.
still without speech the unfolding sky and the stars 
convey the swift surrenders of the grieving darkness.
 
All the love poems are made of nothing in stillness
skin and bone become dry beneath the applause.
                        

Evening writes and rewrites memories of all time,
low tides wash away the broken wall.
 
Smudged letters, fumbling fingers
waiting for the unhurried disclosure.
 
The moonbeams knife through the wall papers,
fragments of family-photos hide the truth.
 
Night birds shed their feathers,
the Jamun tree prepares itself for the final scene.
 
Words balance themselves, ready to escape-
late night whispers stand on the parapet,
 
Clouds are long corrupted by deceptions 
night’s blackness is now the blueness of the sky.
 
What is said is all silvery lies, 
unaccounted, numbed to the outside world.