Monday

The Way They Die.

They wither away,
in silence, belonging
to departing dreams.

They crumple and fall,
ever so lightly upon
anonymous concrete pavements.

Like fading mists
on busy mornings
and cups of coffee gone cold.

They cringe twist and choke,
muffled noises, cracking souls,
remote smoke.

That is how they die,
ensconced in pyres,
on lonely shimmering islands.

2 comments:

megha punater said...

are they dreams or hopes?

Sagar said...

They are things that die. Everything dies like this. :)

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