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Sharon Thomas  May 2017
Derail
Sharon Thomas May 2017
When it rains here once again
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And we trailed down that railway track on a cloudy noon
We weren't alone did you know?
In a place unknown to fog and snow
The weather had lost its temper
The train had been blinded enough to lose track.
Who doesn't know it's all a knack!
Derailed, they say.
Before the next I wish they simply care
These are not mere accidents you bare,
But testimonies you claim on a paid fare.
Indian Railways or any other for that matter I say,
When they pass the word 'happy journey'
We simply wish it's not our last.
When it rains once again here,
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And I wailed down the railway track on that tragic day,
I do not understand which side to stake.
Or wish for summer once again in my life
Or curse the rails, frames and journeys that shatter.
Shatter! Solely due to human hands that fell short,
short to value the lives that derail.

            The                             arrival            
        of                          monsoon,
sprouting        begins
on parched,
deserted
land
and
on the
heart
too......

♂♀
Shape of sprout roughly made
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
If this is how I feel
Then it must be real
I can't explain how my mind runs
If I'm still alive
When you say goodnight
Then my life has just begun

I'm climbing across the room
Bracing the monsoon
That's gonna take me down
And if I'm still alive
When you say goodnight
Then I hope you stay around

I'm perfect. No I'm not
I'm happy with that
I think it's better to change yourself
You'll never be the same
You can even change your name
But I can always be myself
Around you
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
I think I saw you sometime yesterday
You had your hand in the pocket of a man
Saying things that you don't understand
Like you do every single day
Maybe all the good girls got away

And the man's got a smile on his face
I don't think he truly understands
What he's done and what he's gonna face
Did I mention, that you may have your taste
You're still just an old disgrace

A perfect day on a Sunday afternoon
The cafe crowd and a quiet, calm monsoon
Reaches down into a bag colored like the sun
And pulls out a gold encrusted gun
I hope the man had his days of fun
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