Attic

 

All my journals are stored in the attic-

along with albums, letters and what not. 

For years on they will remain there static

till they just become some entangled knots. 

Sometimes I pass by and look up at them-

silently they sit with a calm repose. 

Filled with my thoughts and writings are these gems-

and my picture with a beautiful pose. 

I climb the attic to clear the old web. 

Could I discard these memories for space?

Tears flow, emotions at their lowest ebb-

but soon this maze new tidings shall replace. 

New books, new photos- the attic ages.

And yet remains the scent of those pages. 

Monsoon

 

Rain pelts its relentless spears. 

Few shelters, few souls they pierce. 

Drenched in water, thirst not quenched-

I guzzle couple of beers. 

Bathtub

 

I immerse myself in a hot bathtub.

Foam spreads its warmth across my tired body.

With a perfumed soap lazily I scrub,

and close my eyes thinking of nobody.

The bubbles rise, fall and burst everywhere-

mingle with the froth of icy champagne.

My limbs get pampered, my bones are repaired

as the scented vapour relieves my pain.

I sip the sparkling wine with eyes still closed.

But sense the twirls of steam float in the air.

Invisible fingers massage my brows.

The music I hum has a heady flair.

Pleasure courses through, despair disappears-

could the clock stop - the future not appear?