Saturday, June 13, 2015


Mistake is the word I use,
To clear the past with a single brush of language,
Not a nod, nor a shake of the head,
An answer unsaid, murmured in the movements of the eye,
Concealed not confessed, just what the heart says,
Waiting for a new tomorrow,
Yet holding the past close to the heart,
The change is to not change,
Yet to learn from the mistakes,
While time is a sieve which keeps the memories,
The ones which once decorated the easel,
Your hand rising from the past,
A bid to clear it out, an attempt to save the future,
It was your hand which painted my picture,
And it’s the same hand which is trying to rub it out,
Leaving behind the inevitable- smudges.

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