4pm sun, postaman,tree, me...

i was sitting at the porch,
drinking tea to refresh,
the 4pm sun,was near the tree,
stuck between the branches and leaves,
trying to move west,not in a hurry...

the cycle bell rings- tring- tring,
it's the postman,outside,
with the book-post,shining-
this month's magazine...

he has grown older,
now to almost a grand father,
more grey hair,
still has the tired smile,
the same half -second glance...

i felt the same sun,evergreen,
tree,taller now,with no breeze,
postman,aged,with same bliss,
and me,10 years old,wondering...

i could see the old me,
the school girl,free,
the yearnings same,
which made moments of life,
still same yet growing with time...

dearest

dearest,precious,
there are perils,
and some precarious,
sleep walking the dangers,
as the end approaches,
were you throw away,
inside the delirious,
all in the different names,
of convenience,
it's strangeness,
colored as innocence,
to get profound,
unnecessary to witness,
notorious...

doused cleanliness,
also don't sense,
colors,bright stark,
gray and it's wardrobe of dowdiness...
not to believe seen...

gray and it's dowdiness,never appeals,
a way again to learn,realize,
black exists,
it's deeper abyss,
how to believe only seen?

All can write...

All can write,
Because it's all about our mind,
What we saw, we heard, we imagine...
How the conflicting emotions fight...
Why behind the why when we ask why...
The words we have and their meaningful depth,
The words we don't have and their nearest friends,
And how we use,the way we decide,
What all we righteously hide,
How all the truth gets revealed,
Why all the words are differently lined...
Our attention to a matter and the fact behind,
The phenomena and with them our obedient pact.
The noumena and with them our logic derived