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Showing posts from January, 2015

A Writer

Of years of solitude
And a final downpour,
Of dreams broken
And all the pieces ashore,
I wondered where went that river
Of all the possibilities.
The pen was lying dead
On a blank paper;
The ink overflown
Drenched my soul;
I wondered if I could ever make right
The massacre I left behind.
I wondered if I could
Ever do what's right.
They told me I was a writer
And that made my life.

Justice Prevails

From ages, beaten, rotten,
He rises from his own ashes.
He touches the skin, venomous,
Of the one who had breathed the fire.
He burns bright, with envy,
With all the hatred within.
The skin bleeds and wails
On the mummified corpse
Of its own sins-
Its past deeds.

The past rises high
And swallows the dead eyes first.
The skin, once venomous,
Lies at the mercy of its own reflection.

Justice, they say,
Takes a long time to act...
But, they can only heave a sigh
When they finally see
The Time isn't as far
As it seemed to be...

My Illusion

I think of the words I would like to say
Of love, of separation and your brief stay.
I think of you as I walk the town
On lonely evenings on the nearby lawn.
You quietly follow me on a gentle morning,
I turn around and you're no longer near.
I write the words on a piece of paper.
I write a poem; I write you a letter.
You touch my hand and I cease to write,
I turn around and I see you fade away.
I think you're gone and I need to move on.
I swallow the words, I bury it all.
I tear the paper; I let you go
While you stand there, mutely watching it all.