Sore

Pure acads beckon the soul cringed inside uncomfortable walls.

Of life

Drama is the Piano.
Piano is the drama.

Subtlety, beauty and mellowness linger within, here and there.

Non-obtrusively.

It's like this.

All you do is find poetry in others, and lose your own.

Unrest

Clouds of silence,
laid on an Ilayaraja piece.

Background for,
the tea shop, dish washing,
savoured rust of
the first bicycle.

Silence meted on memories,
clichéd references to footsteps;
perhaps along some barren beach.

Full moon night,
The heart was supposed to have sunk.

But, hoo,
we seem to have a mutter here.

You wake up,
and you find things to share.
Love, work and even an occasional nightmare.

Before retiring,
all you do is stare.