Blank Pages

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One night you’ll be all alone by yourself
with your grey hair and wrinkled face
you’d try to plop down near the fireplace
when the forgotten love would break its shell.

Your shaky and crinkled hands would try
to hold the diary of blank pages I threaded
for you to know that I’ll there if ever your sails shredded
for you to heart out your life’s hows and whys.

In subdued glow your droopy and wet eyes
which I believe still appear as an ocean
the one that had swallowed me in devotion
would read those blank pages you had despise.

You might cry a bit, you will regret a lot
when you’ll see the fire burning outside, inside
of your heart where I had once comfortably reside
when you’ll try to recreate my face you forgot.

In your loneliness you would be full of time
and you would try to ink those blank pages
with your sorrows and how life is at lonely stages
but by then you’d realize that dry ink is not worth a dime.

In the blue and the dim and the fire light
my love would come and make you whole
for even then you’ll remain pilgrim in my soul
for even then my love won’t be out of your sight.

-Kritika Vashist

Sleepless Nights

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The stars spread themselves
over the velvet night sky.
The moonlight penetrates
the darkest voids.
As the silence embarks
another sleepless night.

Through out the day
the clock ticks recklessly,
and the night appears
in a blink of an eye.
Perhaps, time loves night,
as the clock ticks like a ponderous animal.
Perhaps, nights are always heavy,
for they carry our thoughts
all our grief, all our sorrows
all broken dreams, all tomorrows.
Perhaps, nights listen patiently,
about the stories of our loneliness
of our lost love, and all secrets
of disappointment, and regrets.
Perhaps, nights are longer,
for they fight with the demon
that lives within us,
and the one only known to us.

And I wonder,
How the nights are silent,
and yet, speak the loudest.
How the nights are meant to sleep,
and yet, I am here at 1:20 am,
struggling with another sleepless night.

-Kritika Vashist