Anuraag Sharma Poems

A man is not born till he dies
the 'a man' once lived and loved
hugged and was hanged
one time, two times and many…
...

Drip - drop, drip-drop
it rained over my roof-top
upon my tin - shade wetting the walls
and the fields behind and the green crop
...

Once there was a he -
a mowed inkpot
fingers were little holders
with broken G-nibs
...

The sun--fevered, falling
'hectic red' -- coughs a moon out. Viral day mews with pain.
An across is first a through then beyond... then gone.
A Plato- evening revives a Socratic day in whispered dialogues.
...

Now
the heat here
melts the memory cubes congealed then and there....
Once a butterfly flew around the tiny spots of greenery at the outdoors and then suddenly flew away clapping
...

I had a dream.
It is no longer there.
A step down the aircraft
strangled it at once.
...

And you taught me—it is a
world of imperfections. Even God
is imperfect. And I believed. Was
shocked to learn that an imperfect
...

When I look back you are there
when I look sideways you are again there.
I feel you occasionally though.
The warmth of your shadow seeps
...

By the time you are back home
I would be a wall—lone and lonely
in shambles, though
sans corners all, cornered so
...

Every day I pass the road by which
he is lying buried in.
The turn at the road bends
and an involuntary bow—a tilt so sudden—
...