Grey morning

               
The day looks faded - quiet and demure,
it stares at me unsmiling and bereft
without its enchantment and allure,
and only some softness that is left

for me to contemplate – a mere reminder
of gentleness, of softness in your eyes
and in your smile - a sure binder
of hungry hearts to generate sighs.

The thrill has gone… Oh yes, not I alone
fell victim of the magic you performed,
and therefore your smile, for many cloned,
lost mystery in multiplied forms.

I can’t complain. I had my fair share
of joy extracted from the hints of hope
when I have let my thoughts to be ensnared
and to be tighten with this gentle rope.

I was as willing to be trapped as you to chase
(perhaps, subconsciously) with your charms innate,
for men are hunters… So, let us face
the prose and banality of bait.

I longed for you, unwittingly nostalgic
for what my past experience emits.
Oh, well, alas, but poetry and magic
have their own nitty-gritty bits.

All has its underpinning and its reason,
all can be psychologically explained,
but prose of life seems to be a treason
for poetry, which is in me ingrained.

I’m sobering. The greyness of the morning
feeds sadness for the loss of my delight
and silhouettes of trees reflect my mourning
in their stillness – almost black on white.

The world, it seems, has shed its bright colour –
perhaps, it’s changing skin for future times
to be returned in all its splendid valour
in order to enchant and give new rhymes.

20 February 2011