Saturday, February 21, 2009


Sparkling from the sinister night-
A spoon of condemned smile
A gulp of sore water,
Touching the withered skin of my hands.
The sigh of the forlorn bird-
Far away in some distant land,
Surrendering to the loss of the new born
Still it has music of its own.
The question hangs in the secured air.
There have been eons; none like this.
Trickling down my eyes some balmy fluid;
Still no liberation from the jinxed knots.
Time is dancing a massacre of its own.
Ever-lasting-the silhouette of doom;
I call for a glimmer of optimism.
But there’s zilch. There will be zilch.

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