It was a strange night We woke up with a fright Confusion surrounded us We knew not what hounded us.
Looked up, The sky was Grey Not a single star, We stood together Yet felt afar, No wind blew Time stood still. A very cold night In the summer month.
Looking into the horizon We stood trying to reason Sadness sneaked in Emptiness took over It weighed on our heart Something, somewhere wasn’t right.
Then the messenger came Said he’d called off the game We stood too stunned to react We had been done without an attack.
Poet’s Note: On 25th June 2009 we woke up in the dead of the night and there was a strange silence around us. Of course it was very late in the night and way past midnight and somehow we had been woken up from our sound sleep and after that we just could not get back into bed. We just stood in the balcony gazing at the sky for about an hour or so before we finally went back to sleep and then woke up when my mother called sometime between 7 and 8 and announced Michael Jackson’s death which felt like a cruel joke till we confirmed it on our own.
I can't call myself a writer but yes I have enjoyed penning down my thoughts, at times sharing at other times secretly saving them. In school and college had some of my work published and I did participate in essay writing and debating but never took it up professionally. That was a choice I don't regret. Internet and social media have somewhere given me the courage to re-discover this side of me and I am glad that I have started sharing. I will definitely try to be more active. I enjoy all kinds of writing and what I write or read does not always depend on my mood. There have been times when I have been extremely happy but the words that I have penned down have been extremely sad and poignant and vice-versa. It is wonderful to connect with more poets/writers through this site.
Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests.
It was night sin of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading the white secret of pain in the hollow of a mayhem. Till every blunder takes a downward flight striping the outsized image of a kill. His flames are now singeing