Beneath the aching winter’s shroud,

A child walked mute through the bustling crowd.

Her feet, bare whispers on the frozen stone,

Her ribs a harp of hunger’s tone.

She carried a box, her treasure, her thread

Of tiny star-sticks, sulfur-fed.

She called to the rich, the hurried, the gray,

“Buy one, kind sir, and light your way.”

But no one paused, no coin was tossed,

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A year unfolds where silence reigned supreme,

A hollow life devoid of hope’s faint gleam.

No voices called, no hands reached out in kind,

To soothe the scars etched deep within my mind.

So-called companions faded, turned to mist,

Their fleeting presence barely had me missed.

I dialed their numbers, waited by the phone,

But met a cold, unyielding dial tone.

Acquain...

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Melancholic of the monsoon

Sluggish mornings,

Smell of fungus

in my slippery doorsteps,

Elongated bedtimes,

Slacking routines,

Hearing nothing ;but symphonies,

4 walls, headphones as my roomies,

Safeguarding books

And Reading them to cats 

To which they nods,

But silence alone growls.

Instant noodles,

And concurrent doodles;

Fills stomach and minds.

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In the hush of night, I speak to You,  
My heart is heavy, my faith unsure,  
I’m young, on the brink of my prime,  
Yet time seems to slip, like grains of sand.

I ache, Lord, in this restless quest,  
Trying to believe, though I’m oppressed,  
Do I continue in this weary chase,  
Or is it just a lost, empty race?

I see others, their paths seem clear,  
While I stumble, gripped by fea...

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