From: '...and my smile deceives you yet again you still can't see me writhe in pain hidden are the scars, hidden each stain my life's story; all in vain' to: 'I; a creature of thought, thus no existence without' and finally to: 'and the cool evening breeze lifts my thoughts from right under my fingers and pushes them back into the infinite layers of awareness in my mind, perhaps to be lost, perhaps to be refined and perhaps to be immortalized' The journey of flirtation with words that started at age 5 (nearly 3 decades ago), when I would distort known celebrated Urdu verses and add a pun to them, has led me through phases over the years where I have seen myself writing, albeit sporadically, more poetry than prose and my writings have predominantly been paronomasias and ciphers at heart. I write on, knowing that by time I'm done, I will have defined my own genre. Until then...
On this wet winter evening,
I notice the many faces of man spread out before me—
expectant faces, uncertain if the second coming will mark an end
These men perhaps know that they can be but silent spectators
My soul is starved, as much for release as my body is from hunger.
anticipation, passion, satisfaction; none sustains
the notion of eternity is euphoric much as it is daunting:
an evidence of the beauty in what laid around me