A Winter Within, a Year Next
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Beneath the pale sigh of winter's breath,
the branches ache with the memories of spring.
The leaves whisper of yesteryears, the fallen leaves you see, some brown and yellow of the once green. Life turns its pages like the years of a calender - 24, 25... like the leaves turn from green to yellow, then brown, aching, touching us briefly on its fall, before fading, brushing on the misty sands of eternity.

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~ iMingLity 43 ~

"Come the cold setting of the winter sun to the blazing red of the train coaches..."

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~ iMingLity 42 ~

"Life smells like the leaves that fell on the clotted sewage channels..."

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Take me cross the tracks to a land unknown beyond the gives and takes of existence. I'm burning out here to the good of money makers-- for me dying out fuels them who knows how to strive in this world, a mathematical equation of elucidation, just halt, face and solve. What value has hence remained in living this irresolvable life, that creeps to the soul like thorns of a rose!

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~iMingLity 41~

Time, a Standing Walkman.

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~ iMingLity 40 ~

Colors of the Colorless Past.

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There is quite a distinct patience in our being at this regular form of affectation, when we listen earnestly to the people we love, narrating the same incidents, the same stories over and again to new people coming in their lives in multiplicity, the story, and us remaining as it were, always the same.

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Don't have words enough to cover up my emotions, all that I've shared. The joy and the longing behind all those days bygone, talking of books, writing on writing, heartbreak, and what not.

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Sracblmed Existence > 8.

Inside tangling trees and golden leaves, behind sad springs and prolonged heat of the day, there's life, not as clear as the summer sky, but neither as painful, or say if you didn't notice, life eavesdrops like some purple ponderings of breathing passages at dusk that bring rain: the rain long awaited, not fully accomplished~ and hence like some missed out horizons or some deferred dreams, life calls out its presence, appearing late yet still remaining, lingering behind its struggling doors of existence.

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its varying speech, of flight and crumbles, the cries that mumbles, yet unto the disappearing silence, the speech which is not of light, but of our presence in light.

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