This compulsion to talk to you
the flowers that rise from the pit of my stomach
words that arise and take shape inside my heart
events that make us stand still and take stock
the showers that fall from skies turn into icicles
it’s our souls that get drenched.
the dry land that atones failure of untouched valour
will it bless if my world call out your name?
or the blessed has been sleeping all this while
in their safe cocoons
unheard of turmoil that fall upon each of us
irrespective of our own selfish sorrows
or it touches the joys that befell on us
the day we called out our names…
