All this thinking.
This relentless reasoning
And persistent pondering
Leads nowhere.
Not now.

The wonted adjustments
And clinging to the familiar.
The dreams of new
And varied days.
They don’t meet.

A thousand words
Walk down every alley.
As i holler songs about
Being young & me.
They don’t rhyme.

The wishing well,
The magic mirror,
The cryptic crystals,
Doze negligently.

Perhaps the planning
Is destructive.
Perhaps days are meant
To be lived as unorganized
As our pasts in the attic.

Beginnings are like that.
Lost & found.
Gainful & compromising.
Dull & thrilling.

Someday, these cobwebs
Will elicit laughter.
But tonight,
Everything’s a pickle.

– Meera

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