Washed lands

There is on an average one poem that I write each day. That, gives me at least one thing to post each day here. Come to think of it, that’s a good way to manage post a day.

On that note, here’s one I wrote yesterday, as it rained outside, and I sat slaving the day away inside the building, the cubicles.

Washed lands. Moist soil.
Gray skies. Cold wind.
You and me. Me and you.
In a thunderstorm baby,
In a thunder storm.
Dancing to the tunes,
Of the rumbling moon.
You and me baby. Me and you.

There can be no fire,
Here, in a weather so damp.
Says who? The thinker.
The scientist. The sane man.
And still there’s fire,
The friction. We birthed it,
Our own. Lightning. And fire.
You and me. Baby, me and you.

Gloomy weather makes for moody me. And moody me, makes for poems like these. The feeling captivity, when the said weather happens at moments when I am confined to the office, also makes for interesting thoughts on the nature of work, and the consumerist tendencies, and mindsets that have taken hold amongst most of us.

It makes me yearn for a way out.

It makes me yearn.