Ever since I read in an article that prose writers lack inspiration, I was dead keen on coming out with a work on poetry. Well poetry, they say, comes to you naturally ... not in my case as you'd see in a matter of minutes.
And whatever be the reasons, I dare to publish it, would have loved to make an excuse regarding my age but then John Keats wasn't a 60 year old ! ... so here goes the feeble attempt :
Memorabilia
I want to relive a few
Moments that someone randomly threw
Of days of childhood, of youth
Of which I feel I was a part
Then life tossed me
And it seemed to me I was a dart
In the air that surrounded me
I could hear blasphemy
Maybe someone cried
For something he never tried
And then again he went on
To curse God for things bygone
People continued to tell
That memories do not sell
But I did not believe in memories either
Like dead leaves , over time they wither
Still I wish to relive my memories
The habitat of treasuries
Of happiness and miseries
Of defeats and victories
