The Musician

Heavens sang in rains as he played the flute
The musician at the restaurant
Between sips of cold beer and corporate snippets
We listen to the songs of words we knew in our hearts
His flute had a bead tied to it
And his eyes sang of a pain forgotten yet not gone
His hands on the flute spoke
Of a dream divine afraid to be spoken about
All that mattered among loud conversations
And alcoholic illusion of an evening’s celebration
Was a music, that flowed in slow motion
He sat there not a part of many faces
And yet was the unwitting backdrop
Not seen and yet
Filling each iota of space with his soul
The nameless flute player who made the evening
precipitate to a flight of fancy of choice
Listen to the waves of love for the blue one
Of chains of bondage turning gold
And in each piece he played a story only he knew
Yet shared with any soul

Sacred Union

In the mist laden morning of a scriptless drama
A story unfolds
There is a face that has no eyes
And a mind with out any pages written
White nothingness of a heavy untold emotion
Dialogues floating in space

A single string plays a song of solitude
Invitation of a tomorrow
A sun that no one saw the glow of
Light a candle
Let a new flame start another dream
Little buds of jasmines
Sing a fragrant tune
Slow shyness of a bride
Reluctant glow of a butter lamp
Coiling life of an incense stick losing itself
No way is right
And there is no turning back

Drums reverberate inside the ventricles
Hands tremble as a thin yellow thread seal a fate
If they could make it a camera recording
And have some one rewind and edit
Would she want it
Would he?

It is many pairs of eyes watching, with greed of power
The power to hold on to this moment
No way is right
And there is no going back
If only there was a way
A scout could go and check out what lay ahead
Read the signs on the sand
And tell if feet faltered and hearts broke.