Let your disdain drip:
Hot candle wax.
Scalded. Still I’ll mould
Hot candle wax.
Scalded. Still I’ll mould
My stories with it.
Let your slight swing:
Sharp cold knife.
Cut. Still I’ll carve
My poems with it.
Sharp cold knife.
Cut. Still I’ll carve
My poems with it.
Let your evasion swerve
Screeching brakes.
Crushed. Still I’ll ply
My daydreams in it.
Screeching brakes.
Crushed. Still I’ll ply
My daydreams in it.
Let your forgetting settle
Gray dust-haze.
Choked. Still I’ll whistle
My songs by it.
Let your silence drop:
Gray dust-haze.
Choked. Still I’ll whistle
My songs by it.
Let your silence drop:
Black amavasya night.
Blind. Still I’ll paint
Pink wildflowers with it.
Blind. Still I’ll paint
Pink wildflowers with it.
PS: Bored completely with my recent writings on littering, Swachchh Bharat, Diwali crackers and others of similar 'conscientious' nature (which anyway could do naught to bring about behavioural change), I'm back to my escapist writing ways.
Its Love again this time, always a versatile subject. This one's about unrequited love and its aching tenacity.
Do leave a note if you liked it. And also if you didn't.
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