Farmers of smoke

The wall departed and I saw fog….
A pale touch and it turned into smoke
The fairy tales wither away
Found the lost fantasy world at bay
The nomadic world will never flock
This land is for the farmers of smoke

Cultivation of tripy fields
We wait for the harvest
Every weed of our fate
Deep down stored in the locked closet

The field’s on fire every day..every night
The inner self at its peak
With the gods of water we fight...

The fields turn into ashes
And we rise for a new yield
Like a phoenix ... from the ashes of weed….

Office Blues

While the bitter sips of coffee make way in my soul
The late evenings are too early for sips of wine…
But the coffee helps to stretch the working hours
While the moonlight delivers the time to dine

Some crude voices surround the aura
Humorous bustle fills the hollow room
Unconsciously with the crowd
I am still alone in the work gloom

Some music is playing on the silver speakers though
To make the creative ideas flow
The pale notebooks fill with the scribbles
and the brain experiences a frequent tow

the rushing traffic calls me from the moving roads
to keep me on the disciplined clocks
but my mind is devoted to my work
long back I have broken the routine blocks

illusion of wine in the brown cup of coffee
the boxes of mind tumble down freely
last word of the task hits the desk
towards the homeland disappear the footsteps..