Me and My Muse

Wednesday, May 23, 2007


Hope, they say, is a strange thing
It dwells among no meanings
And it keeps its bait
The gate, would be opening.
Someday, it would be opening.

Hope, like raindrops, drips on
Entangles like hush calm fogs
Blindfolded black from truth
A maelstrom of dreams
Waiting to unfold; or is it ?

Hope, like a train, comes
With someone tied to the tracks
And passes by
No ifs, buts, and no whys.
It sounded like a nightmare screem.

But hope, as it seems, is all there is
Be it a day or the squirells cheese
So may the cloud remain
And more and more appear
Be it false, but its still a hope.




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