The moving finger writes.............

Thoughts…..they roam about, Bouncing off from the walls Of this room Which houses my hopes, fears and tears. Alphabets turn to words, Thence to sentences, Then on to paragraphs; Like a rapidly lengthening cavalcade Of emotions. A long-lost tune Appears back on the canvas of the mind, Wriggles into words, Occupies the paper And comes out as verse.

Four walls, Empty, vacant  echoes.                                                                                                      Dull sound of the oven Cooking its solitary meal. Emptiness and disharmony Are but step-sisters, One out-doing the other, And following the other. Just across the walls, The wind blows cold, Enters my room, Rustles across the bed, Brushes across my skin And numbs my heart. Throughout the night it haunts me- The fantastic vision of the phantom Across the window-pane. He comes and goes; An echo from the past. Like an old friend, I see him sprawled across the glass. He makes frantic gestures Before he finally dies. It is common knowledge That all must go Passing from life to evermore. Hardened minds, Dull, aching disharmony; Cantankerous rhapsody Of long-lost tunes. Years have passed, Dreams have faded, As life became jaded. Do I still live? I do not know

The clock strikes eight; Ready-time, Eating bathing dressing running time. Rush hour, Driving talking breathing cussing hour. Days go by, The silent spite of distressed souls; Madness punctuated by Moments of sanity. Fires inside the heart and outside, And the endless screams From silent minds. Verse is my anaesthetic That somehow dulls the pain.

Dark skies, drizzling rain, The stillness of the morning. The rainswept greens Laugh at the grey skies. One depicts hope; the other, despair. It was not so long back That I had opened my bags and my mind In search of some solace; It was not so long back That I had to lock them once again. Rainswept days are  comforting; They bring back blissful memories Of  careless days When life meant more than rituals That have to be performed. Memories  work both ways; They heal  you inside, But at the same time, Sear the mind Which is still in search of that elusive dream. The river beside my house is full, The banks overflowing; I have seen this river in a dry summer spate, Just like our lives Switching  between loss and redemption. There are monsoon  journeys that are made; Fantastic  hopes, lofty dreams, Journeys of life are often in the mind, That elate you And leave you longing for more. The rain has stoppe