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
And words deformed into meaning
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
From the ruins
Of those lost poets
And the souls
Who lived a life
Of discontent and drear.


Back to the Beginning

It seems

like I’m achieving nothing.

Each day

starts and ends

as if they were meant to do that.

I start each day

with an aim.

And as the sun goes up,

my desires start to fade away.

I find myself nowhere.

After some moment comes

the much awaited EVENING,

and I try to start something old in a new way and I fail each time.

And with the approaching night,

I find myself dead,

in a very common way

that’s something I’m used to.

And then comes

another new day.

Back to the beginning. Back to life.