Pens and Pages

So many years have gone by And age has made both of us A lot older than we used to be, A little wiser than we used to be. And when the yesteryears Enter stealthily through the doors Of a veiled moon and a dark cirrus, We look back at what we used to be And what we have become today. So many years have gone by And I don't see a single sign of you And you see me not in who I am today. I have changed as I should have - I have built a small hut in a new village now. You still are in the city we used to live in. And maybe we'd have been so much happier now, But I have changed as I should have And you, you still have those grey hairs Like the rays of moonlight falling on my face now. And when I have changed as I should have, You still live in the city we used to live in, Looking the way you used to look, And maybe, just maybe, you haven't changed a bit, The way you should have changed.

When he made that charming cup of tea, And when he smiled, so lovingly, You knew you were changing, Your stone cold heart was now melting, One pebble at a time. And when he touched you, gently, You just smiled. Oh, did it hurt then? When you knew he was leaving? Or, were you just embracing The moment, without grieving? His presence, His perfume, Did that make you forget About someone you left Long before he came? And when he talked about his love, Did you reminisce yours? Or is it him you thought about, And his lost love of yore? When he asked about you, You knew you were ready to tell, To tell him about all you know, And all that has bothered you, ever so. Did you tell him then that you were broken? Or did you just shed a drop of tear? Tell me, did you just smile, And pretended to be just fine? Did your heart want to cry? Did you feel like running away to hide? When he caressed your hands, You knew you wanted him to stay. You knew if he just stay...

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

From ages, beaten, rotten, He rises from his own ashes. He touches the skin, venomous, Of the one who had breathed the fire. He burns bright, with envy, With all the hatred within. The skin bleeds and wails On the mummified corpse Of its own sins- Its past deeds. The past rises high And swallows the dead eyes first. The skin, once venomous, Lies at the mercy of its own reflection. Justice, they say, Takes a long time to act... But, they can only heave a sigh When they finally see The Time isn't as far As it seemed to be...

They say that if you take care of the present the future will fall in place. I doubt it. Almost two months ago I was all at sea on what to do to make my future better than my present. "Priorities" was the word and I had a handful, all at the same level. I took some time and prioritized them into various levels, my first priority being "today". A week later, I was happier than never before - fewer worries, fewer goals, all focused. Two months have elapsed and now I feel I am just stuck with today. I don't know what's in store for me in the future (Well, nobody does). But even my today is slipping out of my hands. I'm losing my grip. I am losing control so I am letting it go. But sometimes, I repeat, sometimes life's not so much of a fairy tale when you let go of things. May be you need to let go of only the wrong things and stick to the right things and hold them till your hands bleed. My hands aren't bleeding. I let go a...