Buried under folds of time lines, with a unique stamp.
Some taut and undamaged, some hang limply damp.
Lie moments waiting to mutate into nostalgia.
As fresh as rain drops, yet as old as abandoned dreams.
Some sweet, some sour and some bear the taste of times,
Still afresh as if they only happened yesterday.
But, never with a taste of happiness in it,
For it is about a time it was and never will be.
Strange isn’t it that in a labyrinth of emotions,
You don’t have a space for joy to creep in?
The thing about nostalgia is that,
It gives place only for melancholy.
Me, me!!!
- Sepiamniac
- Madras, TAMIL NADU, India
- Not an outdoor person.. prefer to get buried beneath books, music and movies... has these strange philosophies about life that might puzzle you. At the same time, likes to live life. Loves simple people, especially those who veil their formidable knowledge behind humility (The poems here don't reflect my mind or anyone else's. Maybe, just a patch of what various people go through.)
No comments:
Post a Comment