Writer's Dream

The blossom

Like a wild flower, her sweet scent adhered to her misfortunes. Crowning her skies with open arms, I ravelled.


Set apart

set apart,

the parched love,

the trivial at par,

a spell of fright.


Unclasp the wryly words,

inhale the intrinsic air of fresh earth,



Face of first light,

casts off the stale night,

cracks open a bereft life.


A sky of reveries,

an instinctive howl,

the rot of miseries,

a long-eared owl.


Spoors in the forest,

thorns and roses,

wisdom in its modest,

thy hour thy prowess.


Under the brisk moon,

fine bristles of its mood,

less gleam more doom,

to be awake in a mauling gloom.


To whom do I owe this occasion?

Its songs of harmony,

Its purity,

Its grace,

an outstanding capacity.


See beyond the colors,

masks worn disguise us,

truth dashes above,

a catch we both deserve,

needless, we recite the colors.


A sounding doorbell,

a clean shovel,

a faint-hearted deed,

a deafening scream,

a brutal sin.

Lone nights

Long hours lone nights,

the sudden pleas,

evokes his peace.


He whisks his piece,

inked and quilled,

far from neat,

his face dims.

Blog at

Up ↑