Cold

Cold as ice and cold as death
Cold as a winter mornings breath
Cold as steel , cold as clay
Cold as the morning on a harlots bed
Cold as laughter, cold as pain
Cold as the drops of rain n shame
Cold as eyes and cold as death
Cold as words that werent said

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Unpacked suitcase

In the corner of the room, a bag full of memories stands .. as beautiful as tragedy. Longing to be peered through, wishfully ...wistfully.

She wants someone to take it away when she's not looking. And throw it away, far away...in a river that flows swiftly away.. from a mountain top she'll never look down from... into the deepest trenches of the ocean...

Just take it away and never open, ever ...

But she looks around and it still stands by the corner, longing to looked at..wishfully .. wistfully...

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Old tunes...

The songs that once flowed free in the breeze were melancholy but beautiful. Today the stains are too loud, the breeze as silence as ever. Push them away, the myriad questions that rise, the what ifs and the what nots.
The sights of the unsaid, the sounds of the unseen.

Listen to the tunes again, and search for the same strains of strings.

Maybe..

just maybe..


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what if...

We could stop making excuses, for all the what ifs in life,
For what she is...
This is not maybe what could've been
Cos while the never touched, never felt ever surfaced,
Maybe, what would've been will forever haunt
For closure.
In the the disturbed surface on the edge of the water
never begged for forgiveness
of what was never the fault
Maybe, what wouldve been will forever haunt.
For a closure.




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Withering

The old lady sits across the road.an intent look in her eyes. The kind that can pierce through your darkest secrets , burn your soul with guilt. Like she's accusing you of having left. Of having looked at her and smiled and then walked away without looking back to a new set of laughter n smiles.
The wise old one will never forgive . And The wise old one will never forget.
The wise old one will weep for you and the half stubbed one left behind on the pavement...
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Winters

The comfort of winters is that one knows it stings. Not the autumn hail storm that turns a perfectly set up weather into a pile of slush n muck. And leaves behind a feeling of sadness and disappointment.

Sometimes the sky never clears up after a storm in autumn....

The look & the crypt

A glace over the shoulder confirms its just a wall staring back at her. But it still feels like a pair of eyes are piercing her back. She feigns a nonchalant shrugs an trudges on. Not an iota of doubt on what her eyes showed her but the nerves still tingled.
Maybe it was just the alcohol, maybe a random speck of imagination that stuck on.
Maybe there was really someone in there. Or maybe it is all living, everything that forms the microcosm of her universe. That is quite comforting. The furniture talking to the floor as soon as she has her back turned to them. Maybe thats why she just lies, closes her eyes and pretends to sleep, hoping to overhear the intriguing conversations between those that don't matter. A sheer waste of time, but curious nonetheless.

Subconscious is so much lest cryptic than the conscious .


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