Stories

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The poet fails to write of a greener world.

Skyscrapers rise on behalf of the Sun

And eyes that seek for warmth

are met with cold, grey scorn.

The whistle heralds my tedious day

And I push the cart relentlessly...

My life rolls in an endless cycle

like the wheels that barely come to stop.

My idle afternoon reeks of creative drought.

I paint rainbows in my head

while my canvas remains blank...

no one remembers a silent artist.

When dusk falls on my shabby clothes

I play around with a torn chappal...

my eyes smeared with half-woven dreams

and a face full of carefree smile.