Piyush Mishra

Such a music in this cold wind,
travelling along the breezes,
ethereal with it,
Feeling of a new rhythmic emollient,
...

Yes I listen,
to the gullible streets in the winter,
deserted,
As if a dead society is left
...

I laid down a paper, white and plain,
And my hand, trembling, started writing,
Bit by bit, words after words,
Some thoughts came and left me in vain.
...

The eyes are shot as they embrace the bundle of memories of the old, years of tiredness inherited on his lids,
Tiny drops of tears dripping down the chins, with each drop comes the reflection of his struggled past,
His eyes bare the witness to his sins, incapable he is to let himself free, free from his disparate morals,
Scolding his nativity and the frail values he had worshiped, which brought nothing but this futility,
...

Only the sound when the wind sizzled
Accompanied me with its virtual feathers
Of that night after our frightful fight
On the roof of my lone wooden house
...

...

Just like the leaves in a fight with breeze
She sizzled in her sleep
May be she was dreaming of our future
For she was thriving for an eternity of togetherness
...