Dots of ink, that’s all that’s there
‘Cause words just fail to conjure
themselves.
Though meandering thoughts haunt all
night long,
I stare at a paper that is still so
blank.
Nomad winds threaten to blow
The dear held page that has nothing
at all.
Still holding a pen I stare at the
moonless sky,
To calm the squall that torments my
feeble mind.
If only my withheld tears could
etch,
All the words, my thoughts - on that
page.
I could have a peaceful dream,
And a blank page wouldn’t be gaping
at me.
A teary gaze at lines that call to
me,
Pick the pen a hundred times, still;
The tempest rattles on the doors of
my brain,
And I stare at the paper that is
still so blank.
-Vaisakhi Mishra
