Souvenirs
I sit with my souvenirs
sprawled across the floor.
Not the postcards and magnets,
bought from some store.
But the ones I collected
from mountains and sea shores.
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Category Poem
An Ode to Hampi
Oh, what are the odds?
Of your work,
that you carved, sculpted and perfected,
being mere pillars
that people, years later,
just walk past.
It Won’t Heal
They say it’ll be alright, ’cause hope is a comforting thing.
But what good is the light at the end of the tunnel, for the hearts that are aching?
A Night of Light, with You
We’ll sit all night to see
the fireflies fill the air.
Like a shower of confetti, swirling.
Till morning greets us, without a care.
Eyes are a Doorway
can you hear the voices
of the storms in my eyes?
or can you hear
the melody of mischief
and chirpy delight?