Fear schooled me in its harsh dialects
slammed windows, iced silence, 
ambitions mortgaged to survival. 

Yet here I stand: 
lightning with a backbone, 
thunder with purpose. 

My chaos is not cruelty, 
but cleansing
the tempest that strips dead branches 
so the saplings can taste sun. 

© VishalDutia

Gather your fractures
each shard sings 
a lullaby of scars. 

Let them bleed your palms, 
these jagged heirlooms 
worth every crimson drop. 

© Vishaldutia

She needs no verses
her pulse writes stanzas, 
hips hum hymns 
only fire translates. 

A living sonnet: 
romance in her wrists, 
erotic in the honeycomb 
of her breath.

© Vishaldutia

My heart
an emptied cup 
after love’s feast. 

No scrap remains 
to whisper caution
only the echo 
of your name 
where reason 
used to live. 

© Vishaldutia

Clock hands dissolve,
I’ll trade every ticking second 
to unspool your leaving. 

Stay, 
and time becomes 
a currency I’ll gladly bankrupt, 
a sandcastle built against 
the tide’s hungry mouth. 

© Vishaldutia

Neurons weave symphonies 
not single notes, 
but constellations. 

The mind was never meant 
for monochrome focus
it paints in simultaneity, 
a galaxy of tasks 
sparking in beautiful chaos. 

© Vishaldutia

The poem unearthed me
a fossil humming 
in forgotten tongue. 

It split my seams, 
spilled my marrow 
into stanzas. 

Now I wear its verses 
like new skin. 

© Vishaldutia

I kneel at your shrine with bloody palms
each sin a hymn I compose, 
each regret the echo 
bouncing off your marble ribs. 

I am the blasphemer 
and the priest, 
the wound 
and the salt. 

My love: 
a confession booth 
where I play both roles
trembling lips pressed 
to the grate, 
whispering absolutions 
to the shadow 
that never answers. 

The offering plate fills 
with my contradictions: 
petals and poison, 
knives and bandages, 
all sticky with fingerprints. 

Still, I return
addicted to the liturgy 
of my own undoing. 

© Vishaldutia

The owl’s cry at noon
a misplaced moon-song, 
raw against the sun’s verdict. 

Daylight mocks its hunger, 
but the ghost-hoot lingers, 
tolling for shadows 
not yet born. 

© Vishaldutia

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You fell like a leaf – not the dramatic plunge of an oak in November, but the slow, swaying surrender of a birch in September. A golden drift. A lazy spiral. The kind of descent that makes gravity seem gentle. 

At first, it was just the flutter at the edges. Your laughter clinging to my ribs like a maple key caught in a screen door. Then the colors changed – not all at once, but in patches. A blush here. A tremor there. The way sunlight stains aspen leaves unevenly. 

We didn’t crash. We didn’t burn. We just… loosened. Let the wind decide. 

Now I find you everywhere: 
in the rustle of my bedsheets, 
in the steam of my morning tea, 
in the way shadows stripe the wall at 3 PM –
all those thin, trembling silhouettes. 

I rake you into piles. 
You scatter again. 

This is how love works when it’s seasonal –
not roots, but release. 
Not planting, but watching. 
Not holding, but memorizing the weight of something weightless 
as it leaves your palm. 

© Vishaldutia