Night Vision

We were merely two wolves
Carrying embankments in our howling chests
Falling for our moons, in reflections of disturbed ponds
Acquaintances we were, of parallel woods
Not much thought spared
Other than the occasional, the customary
We were merely two wolves
Streaking through the wilderness
Within and without
Barely touching borders
Barely touching
Each other
And now nights roll out, carpets of moss to tread on
I hear you, I hear us
Soft padded thuds, footsteps or simply what we feel?
We howl, not echoing each other
For we let out the sorrows clawing our subdued eyes
Can I rest my tired head against your shoulder?
Guarding these walls has drained me
The reminders ache in the form of thorns embedded
Can I rest my head against yours?
It’s a quiet place of peace
Where our borders merge
A silent breathing space of no-meaning
Yet as we breathe us in, I wonder
When did darkness become a silhouette
Of warmth?


Names Ache, Namesake


Imagine a fragment of the universe
The layout of galaxies flickering
In the blackness
Swirling, spiralling, in and out of each other

Pulse. Flicker. Pulse.
Here, horizons don’t exist
But we do
We share more than a name
This must be what it’s like to, just, be
We have encircled each other for far too long

Two clouds of mist, shapeless, formless
Merging, emerging
Conversations, not interacting
Just upending
The contents of these bodies and minds
Of celestial matter they say we are
Yes, mass, that must be it

The mutual heaviness, the synchronized unloading
Do you feel this
I’d place your gentle hand over my heart
If you were here
Yet we can feel the tides and maelstroms
Raging in us in response
To each other
Do you think the pianists of old could compose a masterpiece so simple?
I doubt.
But it’s us and I love it
I love the sense of echoing quiet when we converse
In abstract fragments but both know
The picture by heart
A picture with a feeling
Of ripples in rivers surging within
Laps of soothing melody
Has it been said before? Sometimes names are magic
I like this feeling, we should talk more often
What are you? Fuck. You’re magic.
Life doesn’t seem so scrambled like eggs right now
Or like constellations dispersed throughout dark ceilings
Flicker. Pulse. Flicker.
Back to stars and galaxies
Things my puny existence does not understand
We should leave science to the scientists and astronauts
And the understanding of us to our explorations
Swirling, spiralling in and out of each other

Names… ache.
We ache together
We wonder, we find
To our explorations
From sloppy kisses to our analogies
Of the fullness and lack of meaning
In the fragile moments of lip-lock stillness
The void they’re invitations to

“Come meet me at the edge and let’s fall together”

We express. We echo.

And so we ache under the burning light of nights
And days, a shadow choreography
Of flickering tangerine

We can dig graves
And our hearts
Be grave robbers
There’s always something to take
From the dead
So we sigh and speak lyrical
We are paintings of our cubist selves
We’re the same picture
Cubism is what it has been
You and I
Identical, cubed, differently arranged
Pulse. Flicker. Pulse.
I love you.

Clockwork Town

From the hull of ships
That could carry lake-fulls of rum
To an inwardly shrunk decanter
I’ve become

Not much liquor in my breath
Nor the stench of haphazardly formed texts
Perishing in the stampede
In the labyrinthine tunnel of expression

From thought to word to throat
Led astray by worldly distractions
But more importantly
Derailed by the inner haunting carnivals
At every junction

How, how do I go from being a brewery to a town

Functioning on an untimely schedule
I’m a clockwork town
Streetlamps lit with proses
Shadows cast by spectres of words lost

Either at the sword-point of flowing nibs
Or dispersed throughout the universe
Unfurling with exhaling breaths


I never let you go
I waited for the possibility of an ‘us’ to erase itself
I never pursued you
I indulged in the thought of loving you
Without wanting to be loved back
Now there’s someone where I could’ve been
I didn’t let you go
I waited for the possibility of an ‘us’ to erase itself
Now there’s an empty space where you have been
For a quarter of a decade
It’s empty but not the absent and something-is-missing kind
It’s space that feels empty but like it could be filled
With some nice
Nice is a nice word to begin with
It was nice loving you


I like the dark words
The ones heavy on my tongue
Dripping like the juices of stolen fruits
Bitten into with despair and sorrow
Like a sky full of black feathers
Making their descent with heraldry of the dead
Beatings of wings crooning into the night
With their captivating spell
Quiet is such a beautiful incantation
Of all things lost and unspoken
Yes give me the dark words and the heavy ones
I walk with mighty strength to carry them on my back
On my tongue
In my throat
Without choking
People are confounded by this obsession
This proneness to being seduced by an unhealthy platter
Of words
Too heavy
Yet too fulfilling
For this unbound appetite
Eyeing intangible things with an unquenchable thirst


There is a crawlspace, a crevice
In the cold marble archway to the mind asleep
Artistic expression being the only nobility
Invited and having access to these quarters
Like a fitting glove and plaster mould
And excavation tools laid out
Art found in the heritage sites of our forgotten ruins
Are de-moulded and impressioned into catalogues
Because crevices under microscopic perspectives
Are ravines full of lost treasure and never-found secrets

Getup madness. Concept – Domestic abuse

Concept: “Domestic abuse partly hidden behind a veil and a smile.”

Done with colour pencils.

So, I’ve decided to put up my getup-madness on here. Basically when I get super bored or need some kind of distraction, I subconsciously turn to this particular activity.

This is something I’ve been fond of doing since I was . . . Well, a skinny little thing.

Dressing up, messing around mum’s make-up stuff, participating in skits scripted-acted-and-directed by my cousins and I.

But never did I take it seriously, and this picture above, was the first time I considered doing it with a proper concept. When I first showed it to my friends, they . . . freaked out thinking it’s real and got worried and I had to assure them that I’m okay.


I’d love to get some feedback from the WordPress community. Feel free to comment below. πŸ™‚


– Praty

The turbulent mind

Often we draw what’s going on in our mind. Be it rainbows and rains or storms and turbulent seas.

That’s me in the photo with something I drew yesterday. And I absolutely love to express the fact that I ace at defiling walls. πŸ™‚

Captured by my sister Priyasha.Β Β Her brilliant photography.

The Mind by Priyasha Photography posted on

— Praty

Awestruck in Paris

Midst the morning hour Paris traffic rush

An easel propped in front with paint tubes, here I sit


Rabbit hair paintbrush held loosely, dabbled in paint

Absorbing centuries of eminent beauty, here I sit


In a city of art, culture, poetry, and haste

With a loosely held paintbrush, here I sit


A blank canvas mocks my ability, my state of awestruck

Being overlooked by passersby, here I sit


A child stares at my set up in wonder

While across the busy street cafe, static, here I sit


Overwhelmed by its artistic richness

In this foreign land, dumbfounded, here I sit


Fifth poem for NaPoWriMo. 25 more to go. Fingers crossed.

– Pratty