On Murder

A blade can blot,

out of eyes, the sun...

A murderer is just

God with a gun...

A pound of flesh,

a debt to release,

God is in the fangs

of the wolf to the geese.

A cruel divinity

surely this,

this urge to kill,

murder is but

the brother of

free will.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (24/2/2012)

To Night

Night, my armour,

my sweet, dark cloud—

salvation from

empty eyes, darkness

my shroud.

This body,

soul entrapped

in flesh, divine

deceit, you hide—

lingering somewhere

between, the barbed

divide.

Night, my lover,

my promise

of play—night,

deliverance from

the benumbing skin

of the day.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (21/2/2012)

Loco

"Canvas is dead",

i told me the

other day.

"No, an exorcism

is all it needs",

said he to me.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (11/2/2012)

Window

If time could be in a vial

stored, the dust of memories,

of lips adored...etched in

the mind, like a photograph,

the window without a wall

is only half...

The shoe must try, the elusive

foot to find...the

spectacle without the eye

is forever blind.

Memory of your lips, a photograph...

Window I, wall-less am half.

To you then,this silent serenade,

if love is satin, then parting a blade.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (5/2/2012)