Lines are pictures too….

Soft flowers don’t browse my feet
Just Prickly thorns
But I wipe the blood
And walk away
Cool breeze of the west
Don’t pass my way
Just polluted air
That makes my lungs turn
Black like sheets of carbon
But I breathe the fumes
Anyway…
The year long fury of the
Big red sun
has burnt my umbrella
So I walk long distance
With only the shade of my shadow
To guide my way
Eagles circle around my head
Day after day
As I crawl with bare hands
Barely alive
But not yet dead
With one hand
I cover my defenseless body
With the other
I weave clothes
Today-
These banks may be in awe with my new rise in tides
But this river
Has come down squeezing its way
Through countless desert rocks
Mixing tears of pain
Along its path
These seeds have grown
By hitting the hard rock
Over and over again
And today I cannot be consoled
With the flowers that vine over my wounds
I live in isolation from this society
Recluse you may call me
Is biography an account on an individual’s life?
Or is it answer seeking society’s
Whole address?
Music made from torment is
From the rattle of my memory stream
My pens nib
Donating blood to my
Crushed hopes and dreams
Here I haven’t said some truths
Is the truth
But
Everything said is nothing but the truth
Came here to
Draw a picture
But my canvas has only few lines
But lines are pictures too..
Taught me lives greatest lesson
The Gift of love
As I learnt this
I feel a heavy weight on my shoulders
Oh! Its nothing ...
Just the stoop of years gone by!