When summer ends
This stupid love beholds
Step by step masquerades
Under the cover of some
Dismantling York.
City walls still
Grow taller each day.
Like those autumns leaves
Golden and barren
Torn in some corner-
The bricks fall upon
Over the shelter
That we call a home.
Leaves lie there
Trampled and torn.
In the midst of those mist
When the eyes are blind
How long can you preserve
The memories of green?
Gait you hands time and again
Over the screen over the mane
(How precise the way)
You wipe out the glass
Marks would stay forever to last.
Mark! His name was so
So I am Poesy
We walked together on a road never born.
To each we hid an eraser scented
In our pockets with holes uncounted.
All poems don’t leave a mark
Nor all poets do have an arc.
Poets and poems
Perplexed and ambiguous.
A rubix cube and a game of scrabble.
Word beside word Doped in morphine
An Orotund self and a periphery.
Don’t we dwell in some falsified anecdote?
Look at the freedom to call ourselves
Poets or poems
Whichever suits best
~♥~
~♥~
P.S: Dug it out from the draft folder. Originally written on 15/2/2011. Never posted it before because I did not like it back then. I generally do not like my old write-ups and this is one poem which i never liked much. Hence it is a very rare case where i am kinda linking an old write up of mine which i have discarded long back and daring to post it now on my blog too :)
