Dreams short poem

They could have been of concrete.
Of bricks, with the mortar of motivation holding them together.
They were once.
But now, they are a deck of cards.
A house of cards as a child would make in his spare time,
Waiting for the wind of time
Or perhaps the storm of age
To blow them away.

Scattered, they are now.
I can see each card.
Each has countless hours within it,
Countless hopes;
But now there is no mortar.
All of them seem to be lying.
Lying, in both ways of the meaning of the word.
Waiting to be picked up and truly acted upon.

Waiting to be picked up.
By someone who is within me somewhere.
One doesn’t remember all the lectures, the classes and the practice sessions.
But they are imbibed, they make me.
Or is it him?

Priorities, what a funny little word.
A menacing word.
Another of its relatives?

(here comes the) Change. (you maintain your) Priorities.
Change. Priorities. Change. Priorities.

Changed priorities.
But have you changed?

There is this silhouette of the 16 year old me,
Walking along inconspicuously.
Sometimes, I turn and look at his eyes.
Into him.
And realize we are not that different.

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Ratnesh Madaan

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Jack of a few trades. Engineer in making. Serial hobbyist. Starting reading a few months ago.
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Himaja meka

Dream is a wonderful subject for poetry! This is wonderful


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