Singalila

The rhododendron trail has a roof

Clad in hues

Of departing autumn:

Orange of the maple leaf,

Ever so elegant in its fall;

Green of the magnolia,

Eager to blush at the faintest whispers

Of spring;

The barren have long shed their green

Revealing my winter blues –

An endless playground for wings.

Death is the end, only

If you think it so;

Just ask the tiny oak nut that rebels, 

Plummets, 

And breaches the silence

Of an infinite jungle on tiptoes.

~ Sumeet

Is it just me?

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Tell me…
Do you ever wake up at night
Sweating over reality,
Beads of a reluctant memory
Trickling down nostalgic cheeks,
Where love once birthed red?
Does your skin remember that misty February?
…Or is it just me?

Tell me…
Do your walls whisper
Conversations we conjured
(And those we couldn’t)
Under the starry veil
Of your silent, white,
Missing winter?

Tell me…
Do words evade your tongue
When i invade a thought?
Does our endless story demand of you
The same answers
I once sought?

Tell me, my dear…
Do i haunt you
The way you haunt me?
.. On endless nights
.. On lonely trains
.. In a paper plane’s flight
.. In a stranger’s face
.. On the break of dawn
.. In a lover’s embrace
.. On melancholic monsoon days
.. In scavenged poetry
.. On saved texts
From a ghost of a memory.

Or is it just me?