The last few evenings have been revealing.

A few discarded mugs,
A few balled sheets
of paper and what not,
A few dreams half painted
on cheap chart papers.
In all that mess, a single voice
soundlessly telling stories...

There was never much to say,
There was never much to hear.

If only living could be
in the number of charts
and balled sheets,
In mugs used and thrown
about a room that reeks
of neglect and disillusionment.

If only living could be
In the monsoon of mess,
In the drought of tears,
In the freezing of feelings,
In the ocean of fears,
In hands that held,
In shrines visited,
In songs of adulation,
In fingers of accusation,
In hopes and desperation,
Or even in lone portations...

I'd say, I've lived a lifetime,
Sure, I feel old.