The bouquet was taut in my hand with a beautiful paper protecting it. Or perhaps, protecting my hands. It was funny! Why would my hands
Grey Old Eerie Brimming with stories If you look carefully, you can see forms, like wisps of smoke trying to enter the house like humans
PEELING PAINT That long lost memory that resurfaces Like a blow on your face, And you are torn between wondering Where the memory has been
I look out my window Towards that make-shift gate, I have been waiting, For long and it’s about time. It’s just me, the gate, And
If you look carefully, you’ll see that even a garbage dump will have something beautiful. Ignored, but Beautiful. If you look carefully, even your worst
You’ll find me When the skies darken The Eagles soar high above the clouds Where the woods deepen, The greens cover up like a shroud.
A Love Story that Dies Midway, but not the Love.
Sundays are for the things you love. For a dip within yourself. For the memories that made you And specially the ones that moulded you.
Those tiny sounds you hear at night, whose source you can’t identify. That movement you sense only to find no one when you turn. You think it’s nothing. But what if there’s someone trying to communicate with you from the parallel world?
Note – This poem is structured in such a manner that, the number of lines increases in each stanza I once played with fire.