Saturday, August 15, 2015

Peeping past

The sidewalks littered
With innocent footsteps
Outrunning each other
To find the best hiding place.
The IT counting till hundred
Occasionally peeping across
And seeing the silhouettes
Sliding behind the cobwebbed niches.
The pretence of
Making the search
Calling out,
Winning, loosing,
Playing and replaying
The childhood laughing
And celebrating
The festival of life,
The spectres of
Good old days
Peeping now and then
Only to find
The ruckus of tiddlers
By shadows of youth
Wandering through this labyrinth
Blinded by dimes and dollars.
Fractured bodies
Supplanted by
Fractured souls.
Life left behind
Unfrequented dusty alleys.

Image by Bill Brandt, 1934


  1. Such emotion in this poem. Melancholy and sadness, yet still mingled with fond childhood memories. Nicely done.


Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.