There's mystery behind everything 

The half closed doors hiding something

There's this erriness lurking around 

Those often heard mysterious sound 

 

There's this deafness that's hidden 

In silence of once speaking woman 

The darkness of the night hides 

Some beautiful memories in loving minds 

 

There's this whisperings growing 

In every move made by us showing 

There's this one last stone unturned 

All hidden trash and treasures returned 

 

Note:

 

I'm often perplexed at the way that human mind works. And reading others works always leaves me thinking whether it's imagination or experience. There's no way one can read human heart and mind. It's so fickle and beyond understanding. Even our own thoughts and even our own mind. This is one reason I love writing poem. Most of the time I don't even know how it will all shape up.