Monday, October 19, 2015

Write

This place,
Feels like second home.
I re-read what I wrote,
And am reminded,
Of the past, the phases,
of moments, of faces.

To write is to remember,
Good or bad, it's been life.
And for what it's worth,
It was worth all the while.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Tiring games



The tunnel is long.

A shadow,
darker than the darkness,
Walks on.

He must return,
when he encounters the end.

It is not light that he seeks.

He is looking for a spark,
A long lost one,
Which he used to harbour.

Casual attempts in the enlightened world,
All futile.

It is in these dark alleys,
it must have been buried.

Hope dissipates, with every grain of sand that drips,
But he walks on.

If he fails, love shall conquer,
the distances that were supposed to keep it alive.
Two old lovers, would become one.

Love would then choke upon itself,
And die a slow death.

Love is not meant to be realized,
It is best left to imagination.

The darkness, like a restless woman,
Schemes for the union.
Unaware of realities of the world.

He must resist temptation.
The union must be the last resort.

For the sake of love,
With different perspectives,
Both of them seek.

The darkness- a perfect scheme,
He- the spark.

The game is on.
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If only by Chandan Kumar is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 India License.