Taking the pen in hand
Running hard on the sand
Shouting loud or staying quiet
Fighting with the inner riot
Crossing the ways
Even the heathen prays
As it was meant to be
Even blind could see
Being born older
Can't be much colder
Laying me to waste
Long enough I've chased
Tired now of walking
Enough of the stalking
I want to settle down
Before I drown
Down the memories, confessions
galore
Of the blessed and of the wronged
Sometimes rare or sometimes rife
Till death takes away the life
Down the memories, confessions galore
ReplyDeleteOf the blessed and of the wronged
Sometimes rare or sometimes rife
Till death takes away the life
So true...lovely poem!
Thanks a lot Shaivi!
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