The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. 

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Evolution of Restlessness

At the school gate a lady 

asks me about my experience

with the institution.

I shrug. My daughter still

studies here; doesn't she?



A new mother, she confirms,

"My son is ten days old.

I feel time ran away already."



This, and the fact that

the cockroaches are immuned 

to our household pesticides

wrap me in restlessness at night.

Draw The Curtains

Draw the curtains and it is whiteout.

"I'm drowning mom."

"The hell is full."



"I hate sarcasm", I say

to my mother and to the one blue 

China Rose that bloomed this year,

"Let's stop living for a moment." 



Draw the curtain and the flower 

is Schrödinger's. 

My father rings the bell near her bed.

Perhaps he doesn't;

this wind plays with my perception. 

I hate sarcasm.

No One Leaves The Party

I have fallen asleep.

Perhaps I have gone home already.

I may imagine the pollens

of her voice, but the hostess says,

"All desire a home. No one wants 

to go to one." 



I hear 'One' echoing around, 

murmur in my sleep,

"One ceases to be one if we

hanker for it too often."

The dreamy rag under our feet

spreads softness, engulfs the drink I spill.

Hush hides the glass fell for miles 

from my hands.



The hostess says, "The place

you want to leave for the home matters."