The Gift

Some people speak loud, some speak slow
Some whisper, some sway and slither, some always tune to perfect pitch
And some doesn’t speak at all
Some feel the fresh snowflakes…Some whine and queer
Some elate with joy, some shiver and surrender to freeze
A peaceful death wrapped in a myriad compromise 
Wasn’t snow just a rhetoric metaphor…It’s the warmth that some couldn’t abide
Ever wondered how we can take the picture of the wind
As it plays with the golden leaves…ready to detach in a chaotic autumn
Coming closer playing with your hairs
She whispers…I had never left
Ever questioned how the fireflies synchronize
And yet we slept in the darkest of nights

Some close their eyes…Some were born blind
And Some refuse to see
Somehow the day I left the pen was the day I wrote
I had various names and yet you called me your home
Green as Ivy, pale as Ivy
Accepted- unaccepted, desired, and neglected, neither yours nor mine
Some people fall to gravity…Some rise from it
Some walk endlessly and some just close the doors in hindsight

By- Kshitij Sinha