Friday, November 20, 2009


Because William Wordsworth said - Poetry is a spontaneous overflow of feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. 

her arms are open 
an empty a vessel in the ocean 
without a drop of water 
the warmth she one felt 
is giving away to the dreadful cold 
the cold is hitting her inch by inch 
she longs like a baby 
longing for his mother's touch 
for the warmth that once engulfed her 
the hold that told her 
that everything was fine 
the world was as it should be 
she is protected forever 
from the harms of the wild 
no tear could touch her or harsh words 
she is at a loss of words, 
of feelings, of thought 
a numbness casts its evil shadow 
in its realm she stands still 
longing for the warmth that once engulfed her 
longing for the affection that once surrounded her 
she waits.. 
moments, days, weeks, months, years.. 
counting droplets of water in the wide seas 
is there an end, 
will the water ever drain out 
she waits for the warmth, 
the look that everything was okay 
she looks at the horizon, 
and sees no end 
life seeming to be an endless tunnel 
where she travels inch by inch, 
the cold wind hitting her 
in solitude, in pain, in silence, in tears 
and waits.. 
moments, days, weeks, months, years..

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