- Books, Literature, and Writing
An unmade bed and strands of a hangover – the poem
A flute of my nocturnal dreams makes love
With an empty bedded crux of chilled left over...
Left over of your warmth
On the other side of the once slept bed
Now a citadel of pregnant memories
Arid are the restive course
Almost a past reverie
Tears have sojourned much earlier
And a marked trail left on my facade
Facade of a mind which carries a world within
World of a past... yet I try to catch hold of it
And the remnants of a rusted time
Just slips through my wide extended fingers
Fingers entangled in a waft of forgotten promises....
Yet I extend my hand in want of your touch
And you hand me an intoxicated sack full of a past...
Lacklustre past...all full of conceited tune of a song
A song... so to flow even as a barren poem carries it
So far a dead rhythm grows to climax
With brewing romance of few hollow words....
Words do dance as they get drunk
Side dished with some fleeting nostalgia
And the unmade bed giggles at me...!
A drunken song and few words still dances...
Strands of hangover lingers....
Whilst a nocturnal rhythm bids goodbye..
A promise to return...
After the crimson sky dips in its melodies once more..
Blindfolded with the warmth of an unmade bed...
Still a night waits a dance in rhythm of a drunken song.