Friday, June 19, 2009

Introspections of a Reluctant Smoker

I dont want to go down that lane.
I dont want to smoke that joint.
There was then; the dancing smoke that rose was mine.
But the butt-end is all that's left,
And I don't want to go down that lane.

The ghost of our smoke has haunted me for long.
For sometime the ghost was restless;
It has long since given up.
The last cigarrete has been smoked.
The lane lies covered in butt-ends and ashes;
But that is all; the smoke does not dance anymore.
Each butt is a memory. Puff on.
But when the last cigarrete has been smoked,
I dont want to go down that lane anymore.

I stand at the mouth, and glance down:
The lane seems alluring,
Smacks of some long forgotten aroma...nostalgia.
I can see the scattered butt-ends though.
What is the use of smoking old butt-ends?
The years together were like cigarretes;
Once it has been smoked...the sweet sweet cancer!
And now, all that's left are butt-ends.
No use smoking them;
Just butt-ends, that were once cigarretes.


Time to let go!
Time to forget!
But not yet the time to be forgiven?
Broken heart, dried up tears...
Memories clouding the long lost years;
Words of love, hope turning into fear.
Nothing left to say...Just
Wish you were here...

Under the naked sky,
Sun-dried tears, incomplete dreams and a hopeless sigh;
You will never again let me try.
Though I'll never have you near,
wish you were here...

Old school of broken dreams;
Lost promises and forgotten hymns
Deserted corridors and the unclimbed stair,
Wish you were here...