Dried Ink

Coming back…

 

Ironic!

A live street in an iconic city,

Yet everything seems dull as a desert.

Pages are blank while the Pen is witty,

Ironically the writer is unable to assert.

 

Which brings into question the reason for this,

This void of thoughts in an ever thinking mind.

And as the writer seeks the miss,

He lost his eyes and turned blind.

 

Chair right in the front made a noise,

As if someone just came and sat.

And in a sound similar to mine, said

“It’s time for you to have a chat”

 

I listened as I narrated an old story,

Who, What, Why and When came back.

A poet who was in his prime and glory,

Is in need of a whole new track.

 

And no one else could tell me that,

For no one else knows me for I.

Yes, sometimes you need to put on the wise old hat,

And look for yourself with a blind eye.

 

The story he narrated is different for each of us,

And so is the struggle, so is the fuss.

Suddenly the voice muted and I could see,

A new path and an awaiting bus…

 

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