Nov 9, 2009

the storm of afterstorm

The skies are clear, the sun peeps through the ambush of perspiring clouds. The tree stands still in the resilience of its docile shadow. Has the morning arrived?

The toads bid goodbye in their thankless croaks, to and fro in their naked embankments. Some aspirational ones choose to stay back. Is the show not over yet?

The frozen windows exchange melancholic glances. Longing for familiar squark, in the glistened memory of raindrops. Any chance of recurrence?

coffee seeds brew and spill in the (now) black mugs of derision. Its nebular fragrance makes a quiet exit. Any takers here?

The road is thick, vociferous like an industrialist. walking hastily with a heavy briefcase and a squished umbrella. no looking back?

The heart of the lake is gelid, in fond remembrance of zephyr. Indifferent to thirsty cows, who flock over his meaty chest. a wistful wait, perhaps?

The storm harks back to the desert of quietude, in an unnoticed foggy departure. borrowing boats from it's past. gone already?

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