The Haunted

In terse reflections of heartfelt delusions
Under morose twilights of caged despair
Stay haunted souls beside open wounds
For ghosts beloved may yet trudge back
In glittering plaques with long lost names
Or headstones quiet with withering grace
Flicker memories soaked in sepia flawed
That savagely burn in bosoms hollow
Thus fifty-seven winters have ravaged by
The dim mausoleum of a mother’s hope
And fifty-seven more may still light by
Their invincible pyre of glorious despair

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Born Into The Storm

Two young flowers in a grim winter’s morn
One for tender love, one to ride the storm
Waving with the wind, breathing in the blues
Waving, waiting, breathing through the noose
Two weary flowers in a grim winter’s morn
One of them is wild, one of them is gone
Fighting with her fate, sinking in the storm
Waiting, fighting, riding through the storm
Fighting with the wind, sinking with the storm
Two dead flowers as out comes the sun.

 

A little tribute from my side to Mandela, Gandhi and every other great of similar ilk and life.

Well, hello!

A pen is mightier than the sword (they say) and a keyboard with internet access, even more so (although they don’t explicitly say this). Well, that’s for the fight between the mighty and the mightier. This is not Sparta. This is Musings and in here, it’ll be my little attempt to pour my words into the river of thought, which hopefully will find it’s way to the ocean of your hearts. Happy reading! Oh, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts on my work as that’s the sole point of the existence of this blog. That, and my need to let these words out. See you around!