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richasmukherjee.com

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Melancholy

Dark Skies


There is something that brings out the melancholy when it rainsIn the sheets of blinding rain I see faces, of people loved and lost.

Pouring onto my window pane, questioning, thundering, complaining, how life flowed along like an ebullient little river, without them.

Wasted sinuous streams find their way to the gutters, gushing out of sight like the trips and plans that never materialised.

Pregnant, voluptuous waves crashing onto the shores, frothing, seething, venting a nameless rage.

Blinding lightning stokes unknown fires buried deep in the dark shadowy recesses of my heart.

The pitter patter on the porch through the night, competing with the ticking clock on the mantel, a constant reminder of the never ending race against time.

Tick tock. Tick tock.Tick tock.

But then the next morning a cool breeze hits my face, the clouds turn white, the slight drizzle is like a warm embrace.

I breathe deep and fill my lungs with a beautiful, bright day,

Oh I know you’re there, rumbling in the distance, but you’re still some miles away.

Hush…


Honking Horns, roaring machines, angry screams and a frustrated shout.

Welcome to the city, noise is what it’s all about.

Sometimes I think, to let my own thoughts in,

I need to drown out the world and lose the crowds.

Once upon a time there lived a little girl.

Who told many tales to a murmuring brook.

The whistling wind in the willows heard her secret.

The chirping birds listened intently, but knew all too well how to keep it.

She played with her friends in the tall grass, filling the air with chortles and laughter.

The owl hooted a lullaby every night while she dreamed of a happy ever after.

The brook is parched, it’s dead and gone.

It won’t speak to her anymore, her childhood stories lie waiting and forlorn.

The wind has dissipated lost amid tall towers.

The chirping birds drowned out, they’ve lost their power.

The owl wails a melancholy song of the times that have been shown the door.

The sound of silence, the sound of happiness is no more.

Feelings in transit

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I get the distinct feeling that I am forever pining.
It makes me weary, melancholy,but it is often a sweet pain.
Sometimes it creeps up on me at a coffee shop.
Swirling along with the steam from my mug, flashes of another one shared with someone a long time ago.
It follows me down a familiar street, where our carefree spirits roamed.
Our laughter, ennui and immaturity bringing a knowing smile of rememberance.
It seeps out through a familiar handwriting.
Bringing with it black and white peppered pictures of a faceless someone who made reading something somewhere very special.
An old tattered place that was home, grips my heart with familiarity and joy.
The halls echoing with muted shrieks of laughter and admonishment from loved ones,my heart echoing the deafening silence in the absence of those voices.
A rough old weathered hand makes me think of someone who made me, I want to hold on, never let go.
There is happiness all around, fireworks in the sky. Then why is it that there is a corridor in my heart always trapped in the memories of years gone by.

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