Heartbeat or rainfall, will or whirlwind, kismet or chaos?
Lovers claim kismet wed them, but more love means more chaos.

‘What’s the secret ingredient of your ghazals, Amit?’
Rhyme is the chaos I use to make kismet.

She greets me with a meteor-strike
Kiss on either cheek. Bonjour, chaos!

The world is baking. Why fire clay in a kiln of form?
Beauty seeds a nostalgic naked ache in kismet.

Eros fires arrows, kismet, heart-seeking missiles
That burn up fools for fuel. At the warhead’s core? Chaos.

My sweet tooth hankers for whirlwind icing.
Birthday, doomsday, Thursday: layercake kismet.

Enough with catastrophe’s kissing cousin.
If this is kismet, I am all for chaos.

I plan the same mistake twice: Here, lightning!
Love doesn’t have the wisdom to ignore kismet.

The science of oops, the art of ricochet.
Not every cause has an effect. Take chaos.

The revolution looks like riots in the footage,
But the heart will dance through fire to restore kismet.

I’m sleep deprived. My mind is a wideawake chaos.
A true Sufi waves as he waterskis Lake Chaos.

One glance at the language, and Amit can’t control himself.
Through rhyme’s schematic chaos, at least he can force kismet.