One warm Sunday morning I sat down
With a world map in my rough hands,
A marker clutched between my fingers
Ready to mark places of different lands.
Cities where I went with my people,
Busy streets been crossed all alone
Towns too small to be named --
I was ready to make them be known.
They are poignant pieces of my past,
Murals and artefacts of the person I was.
They carry my laughs and my tears
Which bundle into me and my flaws.
The buses might have trapped the smell
Of my sweat mingled with that of him.
The shops' bells could be still dancing to
The wild gusts of my wanderlust and whim.
Every souvenir now has a piece of me
And maybe that of the people I went along.
Among these places where I flew over
I have created another home beyond.
This warm morning, as I mark those places,
A hazy constellation unknown creates itself.
Squinting my eyes, running my fingers over it,
I smile as I realise it's none but me, myself.
Author's note:
An old poem, written way back in May, 2018. Ol' times when rhyming verses flowed out of my fingers. I hope you liked it! Also, do comment your views. I'd love to hear 'em. :')
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Raindrops | Poetry
PoetrySitting under the rain, hoping to drown in things other than my thoughts. [ collection of poems, musings and more ] Also read 'Mixtape', under my profile. Cover by Simran, @SweetSimu #itsnotaphase Highest Ranking: #9 in POETRY as of 27/04/2018 (when...
