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Soumya May 2014
Each of you stands around
holding the silvered surfaces of mirrors-
the most foolish invention of all times
limiting our possibility to be, to think, to dream -
by an imperfect visual defining.

As I look into them
to find a face I may like,
each tells a different story
but they all lead to one -
something I know,
only I.

Every story is important,
but you only pick up one
which best defines your love,
indifference or hate
and, show it to the world,

Saying, that is all there was to her.
Soumya May 2014
Ink
Like a small drop of ink,
Dense in its heart
Sharp in its tone
and round in its rolling
the words collated together into a sphere
of intensity
and fell upon me, splattering like the raindrop;
dissolving as easily as the ink in water
it diffused and became one with my language.

Today, I learned you.
Soumya May 2014
Time is sweeping away
all those autumn-ed memories
into the lanes of past -
To prepare a place to keep
future's experiences
Soumya May 2014
Pebbles pelted into the pond
Sending infinite ripples across matter
we are like them,
each of our lives
thrown carelessly
into the abyss of infinity.
Soumya May 2014
Zig-zag was the last word
in the picture dictionary on
the old forgotten bookshelf
of my childhood.

These roses on the flower beds,
planted a decade and a half ago -
run zig-zag like a bee on a hunt.
Much like, your love
for me.
Soumya May 2014
You said things -
because its easier to speak-
and gossip, and later forget.

Than it is to
follow a crazy butterfly of a dream,
when everyone asks you
to chase instead an angry bullfrog
of tradition.

To flick your fingers
and dismiss failures
as unthoughtful mistakes
and heartiness as an
an ugly carnival of
embarssing emotions.

Follies of other are good fodder
for two minute advice soliliquies
a distant critical review.

Dear friend,
or foe - as you like,
Come around to this side
of the window,
and wear the torn shoes
of his distress
or live through
her sorrow

And then tell me,
Would you again,
given a chance,
say the same ?
Soumya May 2014
All of us
trying to project
our deep sorrows and
high joys
onto the rhythms
that paper understands.

to what avail?
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