Words fail, verses seem futile ,
To make a worth of these pages
Worn out, crumpled,
These old white pages.
They say—
Pen down something to remember
The trees, the moon, the breeze
Are all yours tonight
But I hear, as the silence
Speaks for itself, for me,
And as my pen moves
The pages look beautiful, disturbingly
With blooming thoughts of you
In their bosoms.
Comments