Thursday, April 18, 2013

Poesy or something like that.

When summer ends 
This stupid love beholds 
Step by step masquerades 
Under the cover of some 
Dismantling York. 
City walls still 
Grow taller each day. 

Like those autumns leaves 
Golden and barren 
Torn in some corner-
The bricks fall upon 
Over the shelter 
That we call a home. 
Leaves lie there 
Trampled and torn. 

In the midst of those mist
When the eyes are blind 
How long can you preserve 
The memories of green? 
Gait you hands time and again 
Over the screen over the mane 
(How precise the way) 
You wipe out the glass 
Marks would stay forever to last. 

Mark! His name was so 
So I am Poesy 
We walked together on a road never born. 
To each we hid an eraser scented 
In our pockets with holes uncounted. 
All poems don’t leave a mark 
Nor all poets do have an arc. 

Poets and poems 
Perplexed and ambiguous. 
A rubix cube and a game of scrabble. 
Word beside word Doped in morphine 
An Orotund self and a periphery. 
Don’t we dwell in some falsified anecdote? 
Look at the freedom to call ourselves 
Poets or poems 
Whichever suits best


P.S: Dug it out from the draft folder. Originally written on 15/2/2011. Never posted it before because I did not like it back then. I generally do not like my old write-ups and this is one poem which i never liked much. Hence it is a very rare case where i am kinda linking an old write up of mine which i have discarded long back and daring to post it now on my blog too  :)