The quiet I usually crave
Patiently waits for me
At the corner of my bed
A pillow carries perfume
Of freshly washed hair
Mildly stained sweet sweat
Of long summer nights
Wrinkled sheets beckon
Hiding a half-open book
And a peeping bookmark hints
It may well be time to rest
The quiet I usually crave
Patiently waits for me
At the corner of my bed
Pillows carry perfume
Of freshly washed hair
Mildly stained with sweat
Of long summer nights;
Wrinkled sheets beckon
Hiding a half-open book
A peeping bookmark hints
It may well be time to rest
Shameless dreams spill
Sprinting over a window sill
Plucked from my eyelids
By naughty night angels
Who revel at my expense
Chuckle with exuberance
At how innocently I believe
In visions true only in sleep!
Regrets, conflicts, defects
From the mirror life reflects
Images of what was
Shadows of what wasn’t
Reminder of what can be
Fate plays on fleeting reels
Surreal spectres, unreal dreams
Hear the unspoken words
Of September-in-waiting
Cradling melancholy in its heart
Weighed down with the task
Of bidding farewell to summer
The sound of silence
Consumes the infinite
Clamouring voices in my head
I stare at the blank wall
Waiting for an apparition
To accuse me of murdering it!
Blue Pen Strokes 