Collaborator

All the artists seek for inspiration

To create art

Instead, they get collaborators of various sorts

A half -life is in search of the other half

To crave for a union

Made in heaven

An eternal fulfilment

Of dreams and illusions

Through creation and recreation;

Collaborators co-parent the artworks

Even after the divorce and mortal separation;

Art is not fancy

Not a thing distanced from life,

It celebrates the rhythm of breath

That the collaborators inhale

In the form of lucid ideas.

The birth of the artists

 

My vision is going away

So I capture the sight with my senses

Smell, aroma and fragrance

All are the same things

Those tell the tales of colours

Of the different scenes.

 

In the books, I read

How the artists fade away

Like stars

Like evaporating clouds

Like smoke coming out from

The butt-end of the decaying cigarettes

Not all

A few

Maybe-

This is the curse of the lot

The fame and the glamour surround them

Like death

Approaching

Towards their bodies and soul

Incorporating the idea of emptiness

The creepy thoughts

That their time of mortality has an expiry dates

Not all

A few

Maybe-

Some transgress the boundary of time and space

Make a dozen of eternal art

Among countless pieces

Leaving behind a lineage

A culture of works,

They become the history

History turns them into an artist

Raw, feeble, broken, spirited

Poetry in their mouth

And anguish in their soul

Not all

A few

Maybe-

This is how time collapses down

Eternity begins

This is how the divine destinies start

And the artists are born.

The powerlessness of small talk

I hate small talk

The small talk is so small that

My tiny body

Fails to acknowledge its intensity

To capture its valour

And aroma,

The small talk hits me at different parts of my body

To make me realise its fragile bones,

Fragile ego, fragile senses,

The small talk is really small and naïve

Like a kindergarten kid

Often being mischievous

As it allures me to take

The lead of a boring conversation

On myth, cosmos and life.

Stupid, it sounds

Unimportant, it appears

Disgusting, it turns out to be.

The small talk-

I hate you

My ideology crumbles down

Like a sand house;

Hour glass fails to measure the time

Of the duration of the small talk,

Being so tiny

It is overlooked by the crowd

Often go unnoticed

Remain careless

In the busy hustle of struggle and survival.

Small talk does not form anyone’s identity

As it lacks spirit and liveliness;

Alas!

Like a stagnant pond,

It emits out a foul smell.