On living
I have grown accustomed
To this vacant space,
Empty roads are back again,
The sound of silence
Drowns out the din of traffic.
My room is the abode
For all tenses- past, present and future.
Empty space on the wall,
The clock had stopped ticking.
Every morning I fly to distant lands;
Redemption from the tyranny
Of the present.
- December, 2012
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