Crossing the metaphysical,
Jump across the stars,
Enter the universe,
Running parallel to ours.
The place where,
All the lost things end up.
Lost dreams, lost hopes,
Lost desires and even lost cups.
It's meeting the familiar stranger,
Again for the sequel,
Replaying the old CDs,
For people spent time with people.
Mirror world for us,
But which one is real?
For we, we lost,
Half of our morals and ideals.
Lost in pages of history,
We squashed our ideals,
And all we're left with,
Is not gold, but gold-plated steel.
Cross the metaphysical,
To enter the parallel universe,
The place where,
All conversations take place in verse.
***
Talking about writer's paradise, it's where the most inspiration literally hits us on the head. So maybe this paradise is not a place but a time, a moment of time in the space-time continuum which sparks off. The Eureka moment we writers wished we could visit everyday. But the doors to thus parallel dimension open only when you need it and not want it.
So tell me, what does writer's paradise mean to you?
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A BAG OF POEMS
PoetryA spark that fades, Just as you touch it, yet, Illuminating all shades. Fleeting and transitory, Still it manages, To convey a story. Highest ranking till date: #13 in poetry (4/12/16)
