Kamran Alam Khan

There comes a point
when even desire
stops shouting.
Not because it is solved
but because it understands
I am not negotiating anymore.

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Silence is no longer absence.
It is the room
my thoughts move into
when they are tired
of explaining themselves.

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When everything falls quiet,
I discover new weather
the wind of unspoken things,
the long horizon
where feeling walks
without needing a name.

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I do not meditate.
I simply stop
adding anything.
The silence that remains
is not spiritual
just what survives
after speech gives up.

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Parts of me fall off
and settle somewhere
I cannot follow.
The past becomes
its own landscape,
and I become
a quieter animal.

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What I lose each year
is not memory,
but the pressure
to keep proving
that I exist.
Erosion feels like peace
only because resistance weakens first.

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Nothing dramatic
just a slow leak
in the container
where I store
my importance.
One morning I will notice
I no longer refill it.

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The self is not a fortress
but a stone in a river.
Not conquered,
just rounded
by the simple insistence
of days.
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Time does not take anything suddenly.
It rubs the edges,
softens the certainties,
fills the cracks with silence
until the shape of “I”
is no longer worth defending.
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I used to fear
the empty room in me.
Now I walk there
barefoot,
listening to the echoes
until even echoes
realize they can rest.
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Ultimately,
there is nothing to gain.
Ultimately,
there is nothing to lose.
Let it be—just this.
Wu wei.

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Ultimately,
there is nothing to gain.
Ultimately,
there is nothing to lose.
Let it be—just this.
Wu wei.

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The link to poem:

kamranrmp.wordpress.com/2025/06/18/y...

My buffalo Bodhidharma I heard of hima fat, strong calf,brought to the altar of blood.They said he was wild,broke ropes,ran as if chasing his own freedom.Curiosity led me,feet slow,heart unsure.There he stoodtied with a …

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Link:
kamranrmp.wordpress.com/2025/06/07/m...

The Unseen Letting Go A bird drops one chickinto the hush below—the wind does not catch it.Somewhere, the rain softensa curled leafwhere eggs once were.The centipede lies stillas small mouthsuntangle her silence.And in …

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Link:
kamranrmp.wordpress.com/2025/06/07/t...

A Feather’s Awakening I thought I was flying—high above, proud of my wings,confident in the sharpness of my gaze.At will,I’d shift direction,a master of skies,and oh, how fast I soared.I wore my humanness like armor,a b…

I thought I was flying—
high above, proud of my wings,
confident in the sharpness of my gaze.
At will,
I’d shift direction,
a master of skies,
and oh, .......
.....
Read the full poem here
kamranrmp.wordpress.com/2025/05/26/a...

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So arbitrary you are—
a flicker in the wind,
a ripple in time,
not here a breath ago,
not here a breath ahead.
Let go of the myths
you wear like second skin,
shed the borrowed weight
of soul and name.
Sit still, listen—
you are taking yourself too seriously.
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Can a whisper catch the wind?
To speak is to weave a cage of words.
How can the sky be bound?
How can the river be held in a name?

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I am the mirror
I am the image
Self creating itself
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Particular body
Particular mind
at a particular time
I am too particular

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Meaning is a habit of human hands,
weaving patterns where none are needed.
Existence moves—
untouched by the weight of words,
unburdened by the need to explain.
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Not this—
the self sensing itself,
a shape drawn in air.

Not that—
the thought of self,
a shadow cast by mind.

Neither stays.

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