Inside I felt empty...
It felt little cold...
My dreams by now have turned so old...
Its left untouched,safe somewhere..
In my heart inside...
No one is there to follow me now...
And there is no one to guide... ... ...

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Memory of a Melancholic Morn.

The day wore melancholy since early morn. The way she washed, dressed and looked out of the veranda then caressed the layers of hair that were disturbingly lingering with the breeze above her eyebrows, and then tickling the cheeks, had something melancholic about them too. While arranging the scattered books in hastiness that looked like or rather supposed to be like ‘in a hurried’ gesture, she found a few disowned papers (that had a look of much owned ones, but she knew in the heart they were disowned indeed). So she touched the papers to feel their presence but looked away. The promises were never kept. So there were no reasons to look back. But then someone someday wrote beautiful pieces of poetry with her thoughts engraved in them. She did not feel grief any more, but those disowned poetries in the disowned pieces of papers had something melancholic in them. No one possibly can blame her for feeling melancholy that Monday morn.

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