A night like this, And thoughts of him wiggle it's way to me. He was Adam, And I, his Eve And leaves are to branches, Just as hearts are to ribcages, Together we ruled Eden, On a summer that flowered like petunias on a young lass' cheeks, On vows of tomorrows sealed tight in lockets we wore on our hearts.
But summer joys are ephemeral dreams, Like lit candles conceding defeat before angry winds, And forever flails blind, a foundling trapped in web of regrets. Love today mourns, and sings a requiem inside a grave he dug with bare hands. We now misspell each other's names.
So now I raise a toast to Naivety and smile, Because I once thought love was forever but I was wrong.
When you practice gratitude it makes you look at things in a better way. Leaves will rumble when the wind is gusty, wilted ones too. And who says that a dead leaf isn't beautiful. Grey is always associated with Gloomy mood, I have great reverence for people who have decoded what grey is. I have great reverence for people who are resilient. Not everyone can tolerate and not break, but you don't have to tolerate when you have a mouth to speak, you should. Anger, sadness won't subside if you won't treat it. Silence could be an antitode but the hurt won't fade if you won't talk about it. When the grey clouds gather up in the sky they protect you from heat, sometimes the drops are forgiveness for your sins, sometimes the drops sting like nudges from Scissorhands. Many of us are not what we tell others, we picturise how we want to be perceived by others. Many of us don't talk about how we were bad to others but won't stop for a minute if someone does the same. When you get happier, you forget these things. It's so liberating to forget things, to forget how people looked, how they sounded, how they had lit up your day once and how they ended up ruining you.
As I have already said, a poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I will be a human again as I go back to have lunch and forget about what I had written.
A poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I relay information to my senses and it captivates you all. My words are limited to places. A meaningless thought is still there roaming between the cortex and the stem but bytes don't affect the course of life, do they? A day could get gloomy if you keep your eyes moored on the tip of a leaf until when transpiration sucks out the green from it. But again you slouch like a slob and write about it infront of people you don't know. Things look under control when you aren't alone, but when you sit in a balcony filled with green you can't help but think of rain. Rain isn't a mystery under Science's lens, it spews out acid when it feels violated. Infact I am like a garbage box too, if you keep me full of shit, I stink. When the sky appears orange during sunset the heart is filled with a feeling of longing for something. That something is what people search, if they don't find it within themselves they look for others who have it. They curl themselves on the sofa and make imagination their muse. They paint it, they write about it. The girl on the sidelines of a dilapidated city surely looked pretty, she wore an orange maxi and her lips wore a fluttering anxiety. A photographer clicked her photos and vogue signed a contract. The essence of an incoming Diwali is seeping into the hearts of believers, we left a festival behind and Durga Ma crossed Ganga on a boat, supposedly. It poured down heavily on Vijayadashami, Ma paddled through the junks of the river, thinking about all that there is in the world. I smile a lot nowadays, and it makes me realise the importance of lips. When you kiss someone you exchange saliva, you exchange a desire, you exchange a tune of being in sync. It's a moment when your dwindling thoughts align.
Just this for today, too much for writing, too much of sitting at a place and imagining.