never changing things
sun will always rise from east
the futile desires
~
its otiosity-
two plastic cups for one tea
resources wasted
~
writing on paper
the futile marks of ink smeared
type on computer
* Written in response of Carpe Diem # 235.
ink
Poetry
Poetry
is
the language
of
the soul,
.
the heart,
its quill;
.
the thoughts,
its ink;
.
the mind,
its parchment.
that feeling
you know that feeling
when out of nowhere,
a thought comes across your mind
and you want to jot it down,
.
not because it is an important thought
but because something within you is urging you
to bring out the flicker of that light
that passed by the contours of your mind,
.
scribble it on a piece of paper
with a blue ink or black or even red,
keep on writing till the time
you have completely puked it out,
.
then store it inside a table drawer
already flooding with many such others,
place it carefully at the top
to be read some time in the future,
.
when you have almost forgotten about it,
one day you find it lying there lifeless, still
and read it in the light of the day
and simply smile at that cold thing from the past.
HA's Place 