Mother and Son at Twilight

The red speck in the evening sky slid between the hills.
The tilted wine glass promises somewhere near.
While lonesome mothers struggled to pay their bills,
The children of the night shed no tear.

Less a pouring wine glass and more a raised sickle,
With both we seek and pursue the resolve to rebel
Against the watery eyes' trickle, a matter of pride
And against the state's oppression, a piercing decibel.

"Won't you cease to see that sign, son, and think once for yourself.
Notice a certain leeway, the incentive to run?
The reflection in the water is not what holds my eye.
I've seen too many fishes who've fallen for the bait."

The indicator says left, but you turn right
The sign says stop, but you still want to ride.
In the corners of a disintegrating mind
A misleading light.

Spider

Caught in his own masterpiece spiderweb of play,
The hunter cried foul.
"The sticky strings that once fetched food,
the geckos now tread with their tongues stretched out.
Territorial disputes have I none,
just a couple of foes in the corner of the room.
Looks to me its time I left,
Straight to the center of my empire.
The ceiling fan, there, flourishes in its reign.
Could mean the end or a cobweb of glory.
If the end, I wouldn't feel sorry.
Just another martyr in the age old battle.
Or, worse, in history's tablets an intentional mistake."
24 hours since his realization,
Yet he's still stuck in his spiderweb.

Sparks

Fire neurons like firecrackers in the night sky
Light a jeweled flame, A jubilant thought.
To dissuade all Fascists who want to shut minds
A dialogue between two specks in the sky.

A man-made masterpiece or a passing meteor,
Who cares as long as it lights up the night.
The sound's too loud for a sleeping man's taste
But he got to rise now for the punk's at work.

Stuck in the jar the fireflies danced
Until the watcher tightened the lid.
Exchanged for greens, the fireflies lie
Two lost insects in esoteric charm.

Sorites Paradox

A thousand grains of sand is a heap.
A thousand grains of sand minus one is still a heap.
A thousand grains of sand minus two is still a heap...
.
.
.
A thousand grains of sand minus nine hundred and ninety nine is still a heap?
If it's not, when did the heap become not a heap?
When did the nature of those sentences become interrogative?

The man who shared the basement with mice at Number 5, Paper colony

He opened the door and stepped in. As usual he had forgotten to switch on the lights and hence stepped on one of the many mice that ran around on the basements of Number 5, Paper colony. He struggled to his desk, still not caring enough to switch on the lights, and pressed a blinking blue light in the corner of the desk and the computer screen lit up. The light from the screen revealed the room in its complete glory.

Newspapers from the past two years were strewn all over the floor. A portrait of Mahatma Gandhi hung on the wall, with reminders and notes written all over it. Cigarette butts, roaches, empty beer bottles filled the rest of the space on the floor. If there is paradise on earth this is it. Perfect isolation.

"Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?" The clump of electronic circuits packed into his computer's CPU sang out to him,"Remember how she said that we would meet again
Some sunny day?" He sank into the music and into his seat, leaned back, tilted his head to the left and closed his eyes in holy drunkenness.

He took a cigarette from his pocket and started to look for a light. On the floor, filth and dust, on his mind that sudden gush of smoke from the end of the cigarette. But all he could see was the worn out exposed cement of the pavement. He closed his eyes so that he could see again. Bright yellow, green, red and purple swimming in circles, as if caught in a whirlpool, for a moment he thought he was looking into the computer. He walked to a pan shop and lit his cigarette, leaving behind him trails of bright yellow, green, red and purple. He walked back meticulously trying to walk straight. Ten steps further he sat down on the side of the pavement. An old car, painfully ugly stopped in front of him. Two men got down from either side of the car, held him by his arms and put him in the rear seat of the car. They closed the doors, got in the car themselves and started to drive. Slowly, characteristic of old men with cataract. "Where were you yesterday, the day before and the day before that? Whats happening with the project proposal? Have you even started to think about it? Let me remind you that you have been on leave half of this month and now you're starting that absence streak again. Would you care to explain young man?" The old man in the passenger seat in front spoke.
"The seat is really dirty. Its covered in fungus. You ought to clean it Mr Patel. You can get it done at any car service station. Or you could vacuum clean it. It would turn out to be cheaper. I would have been glad to let you borrow my vacuum cleaner if I owned one." He replied. Hearing this the man, who was busy driving till now, slammed the brake hard intending to bring the car to a screeching halt. The car stopped peacefully. "And what about your homework? Its been six weeks in fourth grade and you still cant count" he spoke," Forget that, you cant even frame a meaningful sentence.Your grammar is pathetic. And by the way I dont think you can even spell the word 'grammar'. You..." The driver of the car looked in awe, gulped down the disrespect he just witnessed. The person at the rear of the car jumped out of the car into some deep void. An endless void.

"Vera! Vera! What has become of you? Does anybody else here feel the way I do?"

He opened his eyes as a newspaper flung from a newspaper boy's hand slammed against the door. He got up from the chair and opened the door to see morning.

Pregnant Images

Tell me your thoughts.
Let me swim into you
The abandoned waters of an unseen island.
Whisper them.

Don't move away.
Until am in you, you in me.
Conglomerate of isolated existences.
Fade in.

Touch the core.
Let me feel you.
Breakaway from societal insanity.
Lights off.

Freeze time.
Let you bleed.
Horizons within the sphere.
Pregnant images.

Cheers to Aldous Huxley and the Doors of Perception that inspired me to write this.