Twinkling stars,
Illuminated moon,
Just me and them,
staring back at each other...

Careless chuckles,
Reluctant teary eyes,
Just me and these emotions,
and their unexplained outburst...

Dark skies,
Flight of flights,
Just us and the moment,
fading into an oblivion...

But this is what,
this night is all about,
about me wishing to be,
where I will finally be rid of,

The desire,
The pain,
The suffering,
And infertile hope,

Where everything will be,
peaceful,
calm,
beautiful,
homely....

What a mere irony it is,
that grievance follows ,
the attempt of mine.
to be something that,
would please you the most...

What a mere irony it is,
that smile flourishes,
on my face, like a rose,
when I become someone,
that you label insane...

Once I transform,
into something ,
undesirable for you,
you would reject me,
like some unwanted trash...

But, a single reflection,
standing on the,
other side of the mirror,
would convince me,
the guilt of disappointing you,
did not perish in vain....

If books could speak,
Would they speak to us,
Of love, peace, wisdom,
Of happiness and humanity?

If books were a mirror ,
Would they show us,
the reflection of hatred,
destruction as well as evil *******?

If books could predict,
Would they predict a tomorrow,
That is an epitome of goodness,
Or , the one that symbolizes a downfall of mankind?

If books could switch,
Would they agree to be us,
For a day, or would they,
choose to be themselves?

For, despite their monumental silence,
they are bestowed with wisdom, unlike us.
For, even though they are mere pages filled with words,
they are much more than the almost extinct human virtues...

That which surrounded me,
was a mix-and-match,
of surroundings natural,
and man-made.

It seemed to me, as if,
a bleeding angel of nature,
was compelled to,
arrive in a modern day crusade.

Too old, I am, to think that a falling star can fulfill a beautiful desire,
Too old, for sure, to say a few words of senseless thoughts, perhaps a satire.
Too old, for certain, to believe in tales of magic, in Cinderella or Snow White,
Too old, maybe, to lay on he bed and think I am one of them, at midnight.

Too old, they say, I am , to chuckle childishly over not-so-funny jokes,
Too old, I suppose, to dream of finding my dream gift, inside a pair of socks.
Too old, I realized, to feel the tickle of my love's fingertips, on my wrinkled skin.
Too old, I know, to expect anything at all, from all those 'trusted' kith and kin.

Am I too old, though, to not fill the sky with balloons big and small, blue, pink, green and red?
Too old, you think, to jump up and down with my best friend happily on that spongy bed?
But, do you ever get old enough, to not sing your favourite songs in the shower, without a pause?
Old, old enough, to not dance freely around the house and imagine a round of applause?

At times, I ask myself, an I too old to believe in things magical or great?
My old, tired heart, flutters a bit, when to hide from reality, I find an escape.
Am I too old, I ask sometimes, to feel all those alluring things once more?
I don't think, that one ever gets old enough, to become a kid again, to the core.

I searched for it here,
I searched for it there,
But, I never found anything,
From which, I was scared.

I scanned for it, in the sky,
I scanned for it, on Earth,
There was nothing, I was scared of,
Be it, of any might or mirth.

I asked for it , to the angels,
I asked for it, to the demons,
None could help me out in hell,
They said, fear doesn't exist in the heavens.

At last, when I got tired of the search,
I thought, I should take some rest,
When I laid down, and reflected upon myself,
I realized it then, I had found one demon at it's best.

I kept on glaring at the devil, inside me,
I saw it feeding itself, by eating me up,
So much hatred, it filled me with, all this time,

It then dawned upon me, that I had been doomed,
And with the first tinge of fear, I gulped.