Small Pains

I want you to call

me, when my shirt was stainless

and sun was rising.

The monarch lands on

my book to read the verse―

meant for the moon.

The empty mind spins.

Script was totally burnt-out in

my voicelessness.

Whom To Sing

The first stitch

of the poem. Painless words.

There was no song.

The lull before the

blast. Buddha bends to pick up

the tangerines.

Deep orange-red

sun rises to name the sin.

There was no saint.

Sorting Again

Love blooms in hush,

like cranberry. It heals soul,

half moon, half stings.

Gives you wisdom

to singe without flames

in month October.

Woe was done for,

when the snow comes in

to cover the scars.

Not Any Acrimony

At dusk, I will smear

your lips to color the moons.

Acts like Midas touch.

The dunes tend to

shift from the shivering hands,

when the knuckles bend.

The scope expands.

You will walk on periphery.

I will tow the line.

Ruminating

The fire thoughts rise,

when the stinging stubble burns

on your green face.

It doesn't smell, the

forked tongue. Taste was

sweet on the skin.

A crimson twilight

narrates the glory of sun,

inviting the moon.

Under The Bodhi Tree

Would you remove

your mask once, and come to

me as you are?

Don't throw the pebbles

to skin my pain. The wound bleeds,

to quote the past.

I ask myself to

be quiet in this moon time.

Saint was turning red.