She, who doesn't wish,
For could bees and may bees,
And other mythical animals,
From my lovely picture book,
Hasn't sighed since a foggy morning,
Many cold years ago.
She carries her own dictionary in her bag,
To help her understand the meaning of
Tea bags, itinerant clouds and life.
She, who is happy,
And content with the what is,
Of the Times New Roman Bold font,
Sneaks into her paper bed,
To ignore the sibilant undertones,
Of turning pages and hasty scribbles.
4 comments:
Oh, but the hasty scribbles are always hard to understand.
Even if they are written by a familiar hand.
I like the nostalgia this poem breathes. :)
Brilliant!! I love reading your poems.
Sneaks into her paper bed to ignore the sibilant undertones of turning pages and hasty scribbles..
Very well put :-)
For "her"to remain happy and content with the what is,she does need to ignore the hasty scribbles. :-)
I second Vasu-hasty scribbles are a pain,sometimes even when its written by oneself.
Very nicely put Wriju!!
The GOD rises again!! till i m able to understand this, we'll let go with this..
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