The Muse

There exists a universe where I'm known as Lima. You aren't allowed there.
There exists another universe in which Lima walks. You are already here.
You have entered because you can appreciate style while ignoring content. You had been warned.
P.S. Don't bash me up if you find haiku or plain prose here.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Shiwalik

On a cold winter night
When Jack Frost fluttered his eyes
In the first signs of wakefulness
The foothills bowed their fir-lined peaks.

Like tears from the eyes
Of a newly wed bride
The rain fell on the valley
And drenched our dreams.

We dreamt of fiery storms
That left us charred but alive
Our blistered feet unable to feel
The rosebuds underneath.

As we awoke with a start
Unable to grasp the difference
Between dream and reality
Time began to heal us.

Yet the heating and annealing
The hammering and beating
That temper good steel
Is hardly good for human healing.

And so even as we moved on
On cautious, bandaged feet
Our hearts leapt uncaringly
On their own jolly beat.

Where the tides would take us
We alas couldn't tell
But every river does find its way
Into the mighty ocean.
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