Some footprints are
Too poetic to be washed away.
Such things.
A bulwark against my reasons-
Enticed in me by the grasp of memories,
Bolstered by these unending longings,
Carried forward by songs and
Reminded by the caress of winds.
Sometimes I wish for
An adamant surge come along,
Give some reasons and
Wash all this limerence away.
Yet!
A part of me that's used to them,
keeps asking me,
Still,
You don't wanna miss the poetry.
Do you?
Some words and instruments
Are making noise.
Now she's gone,
The music, that's all it is.
Wind just seems like
Ageographic disturbance,
The buoyancy in me,
I've lost.
Sun rise and the sun set,
They behold it's nostalgia.
Seems earth is simply rotating like me.
All for nothing.
Now they stink. The memories.
They're but a decayed past.
Their flamboyance is corroded.
I'm blind.
She was like rain.
Now she's gone, I blurt.
Poems are athirst,
And craving for a sign.
