It was probably mid summer noon
When I walked into a home,
Built of walls, that had spells.
It wasn’t a home, not until
They wrote stories and poems,
And the walls began to grow.
It was a castle, a fortress;
I thought they were wizards
They used enchanting spells
And they were too good at it.
They identified themselves -
poets, writers; I felt a little less.
I came alone, came few others-
Alone; With same love, passion
And excitement in their eyes
Desperate to be read, heard.
We were all young, amateurs,
Drunk on youth, with plenty time.
We wrote; we joyed; stuck around;
Slowly days passed, things flipped.
Some left without goodbyes
Few others returned much late.
Newbies flooded at every door;
Walls sprouted de novo every day.
Dusk and dawn played along,
Some souls found their mates
And some walls grew taller,
While some others didn’t.
A few brought down their walls
And left for some place afar.
There came bugs, issues, pests
But the garden still bloomed.
Walls stand tall, Stars aren’t far;
Could wall be the bridge,
Taking mortals to the skies ?
But somewhere in this maze
I’ve lost myself, found my pieces.
Learnt and unlearnt a lot of lessons,
Met beautiful souls, read verses -
Dark, milky, bitter and sweet;
On my wall, I’ve hung pictures
Of my life, painted in words.
It isn’t a wall anymore; It has life.
It has voice, growth and emotions.
I still follow them, those who left
their names, lead me to their walls.
But, Alas! They haven’t returned.
I miss them, those old souls
Who didn’t grow old with me;
And all the words, they ne’er wrote.
©krishnega | 11July 2019