Eyes buried to unscarred sheet
with fatal movement of nimble fingers…
Ink mused with breathings of heart,
An unyielding call…
An untold story of my voyage I scribbled, ‘Dear Diary’
The itching ink rippled Through the fresh pale page.
But my fingers froze In the quietude of an unknown fear.
“We write to taste life twice” ??
Yet the ink got absorbed upon the tale
Silence tinged the horizon of thought
With blues of the summer melancholy
And the light faded from the words I sat with flashes in moments
Unearthing the shabby diary Rummaging through its dusty pages
And somewhere, somehow In the faded handwritten lines
An anecdote had lost its soul
With my fervent gaze back on the sheet
Stories leaked through healed cracks
Broken heart yelled out
And the hurt wept into bare paper,
healing the vivid wounds of progressing minutes.
Thus the pen pains pen, Else…
It’s just meager-futile Ink.
Oh Lass, Hear me saying. The Inklings are never futile,
For Immortal ink bleed leaves behind the unlived live, lived.
Through Poetry we cherish the life that we miss to live in reality.
From frozen fingers,
Drips the blood of ink and gives life to the paper that breathes immortality.
From solitude escapes verses and rhymes.
That are a treasure to longings and memories.
And from etiolated hand-written lines
Resurrects long-buried life.
Thus they are home to long-lost vivacity.
Yes, We writers live life twice…
(A duet Poetry by Prachi and Abhishek)