The Hostel

These thousand rooms are
leaves drooping from branches
twisting into one another,where
windows watch each other and one
wakes up to the knock at the door
of the other, the convenience
of flushing our differences down the
common toilets,letting our quirks lay
dormant during these dormitory years
the consumption of dogmas dished
out in the mess where a thousand mice
gnawed off a monstrous block of cheese
daily,
This panopticon though deserted still
contains in each of its cells a mind
leashed to a machine and when one
knows that this is the only life left
to live and love,it is only obvious
that these released convicts cherish
their jail years,prisoners as they
will always remain to some convention
or other.

When bombs sit down and talk

Little Hans followed his football
into the thicket to find a
sleeping bomb from that war
that war of our times,times
when we danced in the bar
to the music of the distant gunfire,
a music still lingering in my ears
as I see Little Hans dancing over
his discovery-this reclusive piece
of metal might just be the last surviving
member of a family which wiped out
millions(of lives)
And thus I tell little Hans
how every day we should be reminded
of the modesty of these unexploded
bombs,in the shadow of whose mercy
we live on.
But then I see his blue eyes full of
hope,and I fail to add
that there might come a time
when all those favourite alien archaeologists
of his,
who stop by our planet
will have only unexploded bombs
to excavate.

Inspiration