The Cook

If there is a God, the master creator, I'd like to refer to her as the master chef. The culinary maestro and the maiden connoisseur knew her salt and spices at best. The stalk to create the marvelous mankind was meticulously chopped, diced and stir-fried with the mix of salt and spices imbibed non-uniformly by the stalk. Her salt was an ingredient and her idea of what the mankind would come to know as 'true love'. And her deliberate non-uniform sprinkling of the mix was her idea of one savoring piquancy and bland in waves, in a pattern similar to those sine waves. The maiden connoisseur made a second-in-command connoisseur, the world, and let it perpetually taste this recipe. And here we are, the world, the second-in-command connoisseur, still baffled and questful in finding the subtleties of the mix of salt and spices in the human-folk recipe; still momentarily savoring some bites sprinkled with the 'true love' salt and still comforting and normalizing our buds with normalcy of blands.. Thats life, pretty much!

Not Tonight

There is a wandering, vagrant loneliness

in this cold night.

The air is sloshed on mist

and trees are all naked

having shed their leafy attire

in bygone days.

Lights see their own reflects

on wet deserted streets.

I pour me a measure of old poor rum.

It comforts

the monotonous feeding memories

of inner tracks.

They don't see the light. Not tonight.