Time is a river flowing from the past;

Colours are but reflections of our thoughts;

Sounds ring in our ears to keep us aware

of life passing by, and approaching death. (4)

News is what happens to people we know not;

What runs in our minds is undocumented;

Vague dissatisfaction is fairly rampant;

They call it as Existential Crisis. (8)

Random thoughts invade my mental space;

Most, not all, to dustbin are consigned;

Rest I type on a legal-sized paper;

Save them as seeds to be germinated. (12)

The soil in the dustbin has humified;

Ideas on yellowed paper lie dormant;

I fear roots and shoots would not sprout;

Even if I irrigate seeds with my blood. (16)

#germination #irrigate #existentialcrisis


One Comment Add yours

  1. MOhani Devi says:

    why on legal size paper in your poem NO GERMINATION as general paper can also serve the purpose or you want to convey something specific. Nice poem and way of expression sir.


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