and the sky is grey,
I'm in a sombre mood
and don't want to pray.
I use to be an opportunist,
waiting for words to fall,
off late it's been
a struggle each day.
Meddling with words,
had been my fray
struggling with them
seems a new phase
Verses would pour out
textured and numbered
and my pen and paper
would be there to assimilate.
And now as I look
over my little slate
seems I have missed out
just too many dates.
It is a turbulence
that brings out the writer in me
solitude is a guardian
that is unwelcome company.
As I sit alone and reflect
feeling alone and rather bereft
this absence of love, seems rather new
one I had though I had long dissuade
