Friday, November 13, 2009

November Rain.

Deadcity remains suspended in the murk that I had brought as treasure from home. A murk that manifests itself only in the winter rain of November. A murk that breathes its way into blobs of words that could never make it to my brown diary I never possessed. A murk that is unfinished poetry and trapped feelings.

November rain happened today, and not only metaphorically. I got drenched but there were no tears. There remains none. But the city still lives and dies a million times in my head and the murk from home, from the poetry that was never written, from the words that were either never used or used too much - the murk that I carry with me everywhere, remains within me like a bubble in my womb, like a song in my head that never died.

November rain evokes remembrances. November rain lives inside me like scattered thoughts.

I am too lazy, perhaps a little too cautious to gather you up in words, or better still, in silence and burn you like I burnt myself.

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