When the wind runs
through the fingers,
when the sand is kicked up far,
when the night of
endless whispers
and the days of dreamy stars,
wither out with but no trace
from the steely hate of gaze
and the broken empty pot of heart,
cries out with bridled rage.
When the mask in man is torn,
and the weight of life is borne,
when the people keep on stealing
thoughts undeserved and out of tone,
when the flowers rust in peace,
in the falling might of trees
and an endless screaming wail
hits home
in a leaden hollow wheeze...
Will this throbbing ever stop?
In the vacant sea of hearts?
Will the winter wind turn green
rush as the summer brushes clean?
Will the spiders of our past
clean out the cobwebs off the lost?
Will the winter wind turn green, rush as the summer brushes clean?
I just want to know. Why?
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10 years ago
2 comments:
Asking for the impossible :).. its all a part of life.. BTW, romba feelingse.. seriously.. i just dont know what to comment.. because you have written a simple thing in such a complicated way.. but, to think of it, when i read this one more time i feel u have written a very complicated thing in such a simple fashion.. well, am i making any sense?
anyways, Deja vu.. These have been running in my mind too..
You do make some sense, but my primary aim was to write a poem to vent all my frustration out in the form of words. Worked partially, though.
Though I'm not quite sure whether the msg was sent across to the recipient of this one. Who cares, anyway.
Miseries are to be kept within, to each his own :)
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