Like a long forgotten but much loved sweater
The memory of him tumbled into her sight
When she was taking one of her rare solitary walks
She paused outside his door
And stood for a long while
Before walking away
When she got home, hours later,
there were footprints outside her door
Matching his shoes.
I saw this girl on a train. I couldn’t see anything of her, shrouded as she was in her traditional garb. But her hands caught my attention…they were so enticing. This then, is my ode to a stranger’s sensuality. ~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~ To touch and feelHold..clasp….grab….clutchand smoothen Not for me, however.Sheathed and…
Poison,Was laced intoThe first glass of sweet wine you offered me Since then even water tastes like fire From betrayal is born vindictivenessAnd for those of us who never forgetIt is akin to the demon child born of a mortal womb You will always be the poison in my sweet…
Yesterday I was called rude. And all I was doing was describing a revolutionary new idea I had. Hmph, no one ever accepts brilliant new ideas when they are first born. But whatever am I IdeaSmith for, if not to express new ideas, despite all opposition? Transcripts from the conversation…
@ Mehrin: Thank you :-). It isn’t difficult to write poetry when poetic situations happen to you.
It’s as beautiful as a miracle…this piece of your writing. I wonder how you manage to paint thoughts in such beautiful tones:)
@ Pensive: Who’s moping? Its the truth and she was just being pensive not morose. 🙂
@ Echo: Thank you!
a very poignant story ….
Arrey, quit moping and ring the bell!
On a more serious note, its a beautiful thought….:)