One usual
evening,
Sun not yet
set.
lit up
windows,
floating in
the air.
Trees reaching
out their arms,
To grip the
sky.
To pull over
the blanket,
From horizon
to up high.
Lying on
such a floating,
But unlit
window,
I found a
key.
The key to
the closet of my thoughts.
I thought of
all that scattered,
On the floor
of time,
And all that
well stacked,
On the
memory shelves.
The lamp of
wisdom,
That flickered
more often than not.
Bottles of
smiles, loaf of pranks.
And the book
of stupidity.
The chair of
serene peace,
the couch of
warm friends.
Tea poi of
promises,
With cups of
everlasting trust.
Wardrobe of
warm happy suits,
A few thrown
lonely socks.
T-shirts of
jokes and quotes,
The ever
growing pants.
The drawer
filled,
With fragrance
of love.
A small
kerchief of tears,
An album of
colourful moments.
A pen
missing,
The pen of
present.
Tucked in my
pocket,
Use it to
fill the closet.
I smiled,
and placed the key back,
On the unlit
floating window.
The trees
rested their stretched arms,
They had
pulled the blanket over.
…Shiv.
