Wandering Writing

No one saw it coming… The crash just happened and no one saw it coming. No one could have anticipated the terribly ear-splitting sound the crash made and the deafening silence that ensued. No one could have anticipated the dense black smoke rising upwards in humongous puffs. No one could have anticipated the simultaneous death of so many. There was not a single movement apart from the tongues of flames of fire greedily engulfing the plane and the incessant plumes of thick dark smoke floating away in all directions. One would not be wrong in correlating blaring sirens and several shouts of agony and fear to the situation and yet none of them resounded at the site of destruction. It was in the midst of an impenetrable copse that the plane had crashed.  The debris of the plane seemed to be scattered about like a game of marbles. It appeared almost artificially architectured. If one hadn’t watched the plane crash first-hand, it would be only too easy to assume that it was designed by s...

  Memories. Rows and rows upon rows of them, happy, sad, angry, conflicted and those that feel so embarrassing that you can’t seem to forget them. You cringe just as hard as you did every single time you remember them. Then there are the ones that seem so unremarkably dull or boring that you can’t help feeling blasé about them. You feel they are not momentous at all and you’d rather trade them for anything else. How else, you wonder, can you fit any more memories in that tiny little mind of yours? So many memories crammed into that brain and yet I can’t seem to replace her. I don’t know where did Cotton-eyed Joe come from or where did he go but neither do I know where did she come from or where did she go. All we had was one fleeting moment where nothing really happened and yet everything happened. Despite it having had no particular dominant emotion, I still remember that day just as clearly as if it was yesterday.  My two sisters and I had convinced our parents to let us go ...

Words running down the page Like white rats fleeing a cage The rats scurry quick out of the lab Yet they cannot evade the trial jab The words have no time to waste They rush along with such haste Yet they fade into oblivion No more seen than obsidian They cannot combat the entropy The world has no more empathy There is no shortage of shortages Burnt to the ground, all the cottages There are more people on the streets Than shampoo bottles in the ivy suites Scavenging the scraps for every meal Hamsters no longer running on the wheel The world still keeps on spinning But the people are no longer grinning Still the writers tap away at their desks Paying no mind to the world grotesque They write of the world ablaze Closeted in their ‘good old days’ There couldn’t be worse timing But the poets still keep rhyming When they shut it off at night, They pretend it’ll be alright They think that it’s only in the mirror But they cannot seem to see it clearer The world they see on the other side of...