My Road to Ithaca

shoes are worn out

will last they said

backpack straps are digging into my shoulder

Rubbing it raw till the skin starts to peel

sun is bright, bright and intense, hurting my eye

hot sand picked up by the wind is hurling into my face

pricking it, bruising it

lips chaffed, dry, bright crimson drops starts to show through the cracks

Finishing of the last few drops of water

To quench the thirst, to ease the pain in my parched throat

still have miles to go

Before I reach my Ithaca

when I land on her shores, bruised I might be

But would have learnt all that there is 

experienced life as it is meant to be.....

Endless Drifters

The wind carrying the resonance of the gong

Ethereal sound of the conch enveloping

Moving

soul freed, gently drifts away

The crying the pain the loss all fading away

Sound of distant rumble, thunder rolling

monotonous bang of the pile driver

honking and the bickering

cremation workers haggling for a few tenners more

Nothing can drown out the truth

That our stories too have an end! 

wake-up

Morning coffee peeling away my sleep
Sun is just starting to peek ever so subtly
Over the distant tree tops
fully woken up by the sound of jostling trains
and vendors hawking myriad things
My day has started on railway platform
In some nondescript station.
The journey continues...