Catching Up

I stumbled onto a proof that defies the static state of life. Its called ‘letting go’, and there are times when someone eventually, painfully, decides that somethings in life that they once loved, or may be love in present, needs to be ‘let go’ of. That something loved could be writing. That someone could be me. Just kidding. It is writing and it is me.

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The leanings of a sun,

meets the cache
stumbles on a red gripe
and she catches a word
puts it in time
and enshrines the emotion
lives it and dreams
like a rainbow as it appears, 
but there is no rain
perplex, as are her eyes
a beetling eyebrow, 
the mask caressing beauty
now, emerges a bout of breeze
the light stops,
a shimmer shrugs off
echo of a heart-beat thunders yet still
Was there even a beginning
the records wiped off,
the pages sets asunder 
a new tale 
awaiting encryption
inside a covert bedspread
and a distant hum
flows into the strings of a heart
and the dunes migrate
with a wind, the tale transmutes
each day, a sunshine
lights a fire
and she sops it up
a fine stream emits 
from soul to soul, as a bond unfolds
the grass is now growing
but your time is still young
A flashing black cloud
marches in, tumbles 
silence, but no storm
is this the silence before a storm?
the dust is unsettled
calm scattered, a night in a day
she knows this will last
motion seizes, and so does she
yet, the clocks tick on
crumbling seconds, minutes and hours
reveals a stratum, 
the thread of the same fabric
weaves her 
and now, a twitch
the fire now rises
spills finally the misty cache
from under a pillow
from out of a window
a wave hits
and now, she is ready
and now, she smiles