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%AM, %09 %206 %2014 %03:%Sep

The travails of a Writer and his lost Works

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With eyes so wide open;
And gaze so aptly fixed on my table;
I could see a transient wave pace out so perfectly unbroken;
It landed so caressingly on my drums with whispers so faint, yet noticeable;
I stood still as I watched it saunter up my nerves with feelings so uncomfortable.

Heaps of wrinkled papers;
Idle old-fashioned stickers;
Long discarded old books with dreaded old-fashioned looks;
Strangulated old pieces of notes;
Unfairly defaced and maimed with all manners of strokes;
Scads of discarded birthday cards;
Cladded with looks that spoke of the handiworks of the rats.

A ray of light beamed with such gentle grace;
It successfully got me so well lit up, but
It failed to get a gamut of frustration off my face!
Utterly baffled, I struggled to unbuckle those faint scribbles;
They were on a mal-handled heavily furrowed note,
Lying so lazily with obvious pleas for a cover coat;
It had every atom of life almost practically wrinkled out;
I reminisced of a currency note, hooked right within the wools of a hawker’s robes.

I steered in utter disgust at my witty wrinkled works;
Inveigled by nostalgic feelings of how it was,
I wallowed in abject disbelief that all was lost;
Hopes to undo the wrongs, hopes of saving the world;
All lost just like dust, blown off the earth's crust.
It's my witty world of trusts,
It's 'my witty wrinkled works'.
It's a world, ...all LOST.

Read 3630 times Last modified on %AM, %10 %231 %2014 %04:%Sep
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