I Spoke A Walk.

I spoke a walk one night
A corridor long, crumpled in a pattern divine,
In a hand of smile,
A small flower in a concrete heart, stood stiff and proud.

I spoke a walk,
Tripping as I came across her again in a afternoon light,
Sun flashing through her eyes,
Aching to hold her in the shades to fight,
To build a pattern, to live or to die.

I spoke a walk,
Breaking a pattern, a whim like gravity moving all,
I went up and down her entire face, her spine and all her gods,
A ray came in as a messenger,
Shame, shame called the purple audience, as if I had cared.

I spoke a walk,
I lifted a desire, no longer
Dark horses could harm,
It was harvest, all could see
And reap, she laughed after the moan, the linen still remained white,
And now I was right,
The linen never cared,
The pattern remained dismissed.

I spoke a walk,
Long nights and small days,
From the thought that went flying in fury,
It wanted no bridges now, as
She was now a cloud,
Far away shining bright.

Story-Telling.

It was a play
A distraction that I took
No notice of,
In a printing press my

Name was printed in letters
Small and big.
“What am I doing?” she asked
In all her eagerness, I replied,
“I go to play, as
I never like to work”.

Throwing her hands up, she
Sang “ Your name
Looks like a train name”,
“Does it”? I laughed, “I
Thought it looked like a theatre”
After a long silence, she asked,
“Aren’t you going to put me in your play?”
“I could never play, if you weren’t in it” I
Smiled,
The story now reached to a point,
It had to leap or be killed,
It was the intoxication of a man
Being man, the creature who could not live
Without story-telling, without the playing.

It always took a kiss to know that it would be the only one that I would live for, the one that would change the materiality of my life, it would be the truth, it would be selfish, I would be free. The free is to not to feel anything other than the feel of being alive. 

Except life what exists is more than it is to feel alive. I felt, it was always there to be felt.

The Cold in me is the Life that throbs.

The Soul.

Wishes driven to wonder

Words drilled on paper

The  I remained  alone

The learning was

Written in rebirth

Of that which created a light

Where memories were  raised

In which a life become a life

The I could not be any

It had voice of none

The words  to it came in slow

They could make and build

To study and learn

For  days and for nights

One after another

Sustenance was the content

The content was the escalator to be built

To be integrated

The I identified it

Answered by a process

The process a devotion

To think and to choose what

And through it

The soul was then created.