Lost words of a poet

They smiled each day
As Humility made them stronger
The meek and amiable voice
Wasn’t heard.
The gazes of satire
On filthy inhumanity
From the large windowpane
Unobserved.
And words deformed into meaning
Eventually.
Time couldn’t rob them of
From who they were.

The remains of those lost words,
Incite us to embrace an illusion,
Of time, being in a scurry.
As we cross paths
That unite us
With our mortal being,
The wanderer mocks at us
Steer us towards the light
Away from this misery.

Few lives we live
And for few
We outlive decades,
For the selfless
Mere blood and flesh
To ourselves, we deceive.

In this land of grief and fear
We die and reborn
Everyday.
From the ruins
Of those lost poets
And the souls
Who lived a life
Of discontent and drear.
—

Right Kind of Regrets

As the sun sets,
Near the highest cliff.
Wind lost within mist clad ebony.
Louder, the sound of thoughts.

Climbing up the dreaded mountain,
Above the city of so-called joy.
Part immersed with light,
Other with horizon you can touch.

She withstood,
With all the right kind of regrets.
—