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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