20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Phantom Fright

Oh! so you are the artist,
sneers the mantel of green.
With clasped arms mock-praying,
dance of the mantis back and forth.
Back and forth, to and fro,
the violet-purple lichen growing on the bark,
wearing the coat of dark, of the fright,
mossy, scratchy touch of the night.
You were going for the neo-gothic effect I see,
of rooms shrouded in black,
sea of darkness, words of a flack,
of the writer struggling to get off the bed,
smothered in covers, of cloth and time.
Ghosts whisper in ink,
monsters slithering through the chink,
of imagination and boredom,
child’s foolish courage is cute.
Let them come, I will fight,
I am so little, will they really bite?
More than the spook of the mute
dark, unblinking bored night
it laughs in coldness,
thinking to itself, why’d I waste monsters on you?
my dear artist, music inside has curled up and dried.
my monsters and ghouls cannot scare you
your enemy is the worst
you are lost in yourself, with no purpose
you’ve given up hope, how can I frigten you
with creatures of yore?
child’s mock courage is indeed beautiful
it relies on hope, and a thought for freedom
says the night to the artist
you , its you who scares me with your inability to be scared
you care naught for yourself, that is the final dread.



Darkness spreading its arms around me,

like rain drops covering the ground, quick and fast.

Turning it moist and dark.

Darkness holds me in its arms,

and I am not afraid.

for I feel the warmth,

This light that sets me aglow inside.

my heart, a bright flame

Never mocking the darkness

its not a wish to conquer

a mere dream to be let on my own way

for it is only darkness

that lets me be, who I really am.



Twilight of countless days,

Drifting by , in a silent procession.

Twilight of thoughts,

the wistful story telling time.

The hour is not for fairy tales.

The hour of the dreamer,

you know, the one who is unrealistic and impractical,

is the eclectic presence of reality and the fantastic.

spreading slowly along the skyline of imagination,

like the glowing, fading, shifting colors of twilight,

grand at once, mundane and coarse sometimes,

and however short lived,

leave traces in memory to last too long.


Same road.

Fallen yellow flowers underneath,

The same tree I pass by, every day.

The very same road,

Where we walked and laughed.

I walked and cried.

Same people over the years.

Same old jokes, only new wrinkles.

Gray hair in some,

in others just tell tale signs,

That time has passed on.

Babies growing up to be petulant kids.

Change is every where.

And yet the roads, trees and buildings

Set silent under the same unyielding sky

With its unchanging exalted stars

remain the same.

Making it difficult to believe

that all the things ever happened

were true, and that

I did come along,

All the way through.



Glad for the wind that ruffles my hair today

the sand beneath the sun kissed feet

as I walk along the shore

the water lapping gently along

caressing me at once

going away coming back

swaying gently with the unique knack

like the wistful memories of childhood

bright and dark

part of me , where each small mark

of everything that ever happened resides

one thought here, one memory there

when I am surprised by everyone

surprises are not always nice

I remember that the wave has gone back only for a moment

the wealth of memory and the lessons learnt will be back

here with me as I walk

along the shore

never alone


Loneliness minimized

Across the continents people live in homes

Very much like mine but not in the least bit similar

Sunlight beaming through their wide open kitchens

Sipping coffee in the morning, sitting by the bright windows

Some searching for the last lost chance in the tattered purse

To bring home something to eat, a meal that has no time, nor name

Eventually someone comes along after a long time

Time that I spent working, running around, being lazy and talking to friends

All the time, feeling alone,

Never mind if there’s are twenty people with me or one

How have you been my friend?

It’s been a really long time since we last spoke

You’ve been doing things I see,

All by yourself you say?

I hope you wouldn’t feel too lonely

It all comes back in a rush,

Sunlight, walks beside the rivers in places that I never visited

A mere fragment of a bygone conversation

A piece of someone’s imagination

Breathes its warm promise into the cold corners of the mind

Friends who stay close, those who are far away

all of them talk and try to keep the warmth flowing

distances, and things are mere formalities

closeness is a matter of heart and thought

When exactly was I lonely?

It’s probably the most difficult thing to achieve

Because the whole wide world never left the room

In bits and pieces once, and then in unfathomable entirety.


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