The Static

The pepper night hues
seasoned with
turmeric lights
that we savoured together
are now recipes of
insipid vacuous gloom
plattered with pain
and despodency
the mothballed sleeps
yield no dreams anymore
and clock only drags
with a cumbrous weight
“time never felt as heavy
when you were here”

the only thing motile
left in me now
are my thoughts
peripatetic, wayfaring
vagrant and itinerant
rest I am all static
quiescent
and almost torpid
like the sky
with its immutable latency

yes, I know
I could have counted
my breaths too
the alter in my chest
from high to low then high
with every inhale and exhale
which follows
but let’s not be deceived
for I hope you know
it’s been fairly long
that I disowned them
and what I snort now
are only borrowed gasps
from the remains of
exanimated life
that you left me with.

~ Chhaya

 

 

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Leftover Nights (A collaboration)

So very excited to share with you this piece of collaborative poetry that I got to do with my dearest friend, a lovely person and an immensely gifted poetess, Devika from My Valiant Soul. It’s an honour to be writing with her, someone whose words I deeply adore and admire. Here it is, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing. 🙂

(Me in italics)

A room full of rancid leftover night
is a reminder of repugnant voids
that conform to the oddities
of a desolate decaying mind

I hear my mind crackling and fading
with whispers gone, numbness sticking
the walls break inside my opaque body,
thrashing and mocking soliloquy wilderness
Pain: the metamorphosis of painkillers, death.
Hold my cryptic thistle cacophonies
Like a lotus scratching a lotus.

the senescent atrophic walls
that preserve banal prosaics
from bromidic tales of love
are a source of an abhorrent odour
clogging conduits of all my senses
and all that permeates my cranium
is an insistent sound of stale knocks
that still linger on brazen panels
placed on fermenting doors of oak

Devoid of a filter, cupid raspberry, air.
My veins play laconic tunes to deaf poetry
with sinking toes in a pool of madness
my body aches and desiccates, trepidation somewhere.
The wax image of my parched lips,
dribbles till the curtains evaporate.
Icicles of pain pokes my palm
Unheard epiphanies, unheard voices.
Wars occur and I am a black moon swinging.
Under the clock of stingy bees
I dedicate my memories
I dedicate my breaths, mirrors and lost talks

and I grieve for murky windows
with shrivelled wavering frames
held by creaking rusted hinges
the ones that steadily deflect
every beam of light and hope
yielding layers of mouldy mildew
to spread like a suppurating sore
on the bod of my mephitic room
filled with leftover nights without you.

~ MVS (Devika) and Chhaya

 

 

Of Roses

Blending smoothly
with every hue and shade
and every savor and scent
that you adorn me with

exquisite, splendid
flourishing and pristine
like the very advent of
fresh flawless spring

I bloom like a lasting rose
in a boundless yard of love
embraced gently
in your tender sepaline arms.

~ Chhaya

Of Blood Moons

My lunar body
eclipsed by
nebulous spread of
your soothing embraces
my skin
blazing in red
by amorous warmth
of your tender kisses
you were
the earth
I craved to be
consumed by
I was
your blood moon
under the inky
quiescent sky.

~ Chhaya

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Degeneration

Dry like a
parched shrub
succumbing to
its own weight
I feel crushed
under the mass
of dessicated hopes
and shriveled expectations
pounding, grinding
and triturating within
I sometimes also watch
the flakes of my skin
the flesh and the bones
turn into pulverized
remains of
a cremated corpse

the palliative touch
of my hands
have lost their potence
the coerce palms
don’t soothe anymore
once they used to allay
the most gruelling strains
now they pierce
deep through my pores
like bad memories
like lonely nights
like unsated desires
like your lingering touch

the eyes fake
of rosy nights
invalidating
the traces of
inveterate insomnia
as the mind
gets afflicted
by malignant thoughts
of doomed past
feigning to be
a venomous vitalic
to endure pain
of caustic breaths
the achromic sights
blind my vision
like cimmerian cloak
leaving me just with
your apparitions
hallucinations.

~ Chhaya

 

The Healing Sun

I breathe the sun
from the naked pores
of my scabrous skin
inhaling
the warmth
and exhaling
the algor
deep from
the frozen marrows
of my glacial bones

the pain
attempts to exude
from the tip
of my frailing limbs
as congealed claret
in my capillaries
thaw
in the balsamic aurora
to gush
with the vigour
it had always been
devoid of

the tan in brown
amalgamates
on my frame
with the pastels of
frigid hopes
the serraphic affiliation
adorning my body
like golden desires
embellishing
amorous embraces of
impassioned lovers
meeting after
a long time.

~ Chhaya

 

Cessation

This lull
is a tacit pain
an enduring constant
like cracked bones
which make no sound
like death
like rotations
and revolutions
of an astir orb
like seasons
like scars on my body
like a stubborn wall

my putrid feet
remind me
of decaying life
deterioration
degeneration
all a culmination of
what I thought
was only a beginning
of my nascent breaths
prowling through
animated existence

the memoirs of a mortal
caution me
of the vanishing time
of validities and verities
of fading complexions
and waning sapience
the sinking heart
beats silent throbs
reverbarations
palpitations
giving way to
debilitation

and once more
I sing your song
with aphonic mouth
as silentious eyes
intone the unsaid
from the engraved
sonnet on my back
carved by your
versed kisses
satisfaction
exhiliration
as I transit to
annihilation.

~ Chhaya

Blame the Night

Blame the
mischievious night
clinging on to me
if I wake up with
traces of stars
lingering on my skin

the dust from
corroding moon
may turn
my body bronze
blame it on
rusty desires
if you find
my kisses old

my eyes
may still doze off
with the weight of
dampened dreams
blame it on
frigid dew
that drenched
my torrid sleep.

~ Chhaya

Of Promises

I will never hide
the stories
I have piled
beneath my skin
and the pain
I have stashed
under my bones
or the longing
that I breathe
with bruised nostrils
only if you promise
you will never tire of
peeling off the layers
that residues of past
have accumulated
on my body
like rotting scabs.

~ Chhaya

 

 

 

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