Raveling

She sat
Wide awake
Distorted from reality
Her mind traveled a hundred possibilities across
And her heart danced in some other dimension
And yet there stood
A giant wall in front of her mere reality
Beyond which she sought her space.

A Touch

Behold the glance
That is penetrating deep into my eyes
Searching for words
Playing with my emotions
Reaching my heart which is dreaming
Of a hundred projections
Of multiverse
Where we shall meet
And play
And dance
And walk the valleys
Or climb through the varied steps and layers of togetherness.
Behold that glance
That makes me dream
Of different versions of me
In different times and spaces
With all your different forms and beings.
Where I shall see you as you
And you, me as me.

The Need

When I woke up from my sleep
There was blood all over my face (from what I recalled from my dream)
And I was chasing somebody
And then I daubed their face with something
And there was somebody else too, mirroring my actions
And that somebody else had blood on their face too
We were sweating blood
But before the blood would ooze out through tiny pores of our skin
We would reach the threshold of something
And that just-before-the-breaking-point
Was a beauty
Of our selves
When we radiated our intensities
And our face glowed with all the blood running through our veins
And I wondered, on waking up, what it could suggest
I might be pursuing some troubled extent
And I lived the whole day safe and securely
When by the end of the day I pursued night and its sombre glories
I was touched by the threshold of something in me
And wished to unleash myself
From all the cages I might have imprisoned all the anythings in me,
From all of my past that I have ever lived,
And knew, if it was possible,
I would have grown wings
Then and there.
For the need.

Thought and Thoughts

Where do all these thoughts come from?
Torment-styled and concealed
More than half remains unspoken
The other half of spoken aren't well conceived.
A part of them partly bears any truth
A part is always slurred
The next part stumped in ashes
And a whole of next converted to thoughtless words.
The mere minutest percent that remains
Are ones that make the best discourse
Once in a month, a year, in ages
Unrecorded and subverse.