Skip to main content

Little Lines


Ink In My Life

I am the eye of the storm, when you live in me, I am at peace; I am calm. When the dreams of living are tossed aside, the spirit of survival cranks up the muse. I pick my pen and put you to good use.

Winter of Discontent

Some day we will connect again. Pick up the fallen pieces and glue them up again. What shape the future holds I already know. The pieces that we left behind in the snow, someday, they will thaw.

Comments

  1. Good morning, Rajesh,

    Your posts make me take a moment to picture what you have said (guess I am a visual learner)and then stir up my own thoughts. That last line hits a few familiar cords. Relationships, regardless of what kind, are sometimes ended with a myriad of reasons. The thought that they can once again flourish or at least reconnect is comforting.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.