The last morsel of Pongal.

It balances itself on the fork,
and waits like a bubble about to pop.

Never before have the ingredients
mixed themselves in such harmony.

And as I lift the fork,
I realise that I stare at threshold of two worlds,
One that had the pongal and one that did not.

Poetry in a Discotheque.

Her hair hangs loosely on her strapped dress,
And her drink hangs loosely on her fingers.
Unknowingly, she entices with an unmatched ease.

In between all this,
She pulls my heart out of the rib cage,
and eats it like a delicacy.

I, speechless and heartless,
Literally and not figuratively,
Sway with complete irreverence with music.