Tiny soldiers march on my window pane
Steady and slow, together and disciplined
I wondered why don't anyone look back
I kept my fingers, to distract
Over, under and beside it went
But none choose to step behind
Heads high and shoulders straight
Back to their homes
Back with their treat
"Quit isn't our word" said out loud
He's neither a leader nor a captain
Just a tiny one following the lead.
Every pen has a connection to the thoughts of a writer,
Every writer falls in love with every bit of paper they see..
As each Sun rays hit on her books,
Her eyes opened and
If hearts were sold in the market,
People would stand in queue
Fighting for buying the good one
Without realising that
the best in the world is inside them…
Each mountain had memories
And each stepping stone had a story to tell
About a man who lived
Who enlightened the world
And forever to go..
He, lived behind the lines…
She, with the scars ,
that made those lines ..
those lines of her poem…
As I walk through the streets of life,
the roads were long and felt very narrow ,
the atmosphere suffocated all around.
People running behind their lives,
Some had a grip and
Some slipped a bit,
But none I saw sat behind.
High and ecstatic on a side,
Coats and bows were their pride.
Low and casual on the other side,
Kept their pace without leaving behind.
None had a choice
but to let life decide,
where to begin and
Where to explore.
Thirteen feets above the ground,
i stood on the concrete floors of rock.
Watching the farthest land of men,
built with heights and
lights to attract.
Beautiful indeed are those views,
not a single tree blocked my sight,
not a single mountain left.
Man had vanished it with a blink of an eye.
Alone I stood for I had no pals,
nor could I engrave those in words.
For I saw beautiful of the sights,
Ocean of lights and land of heights.