Posted in Poem

In the wee hours of solitude

In the wee hours of solitude,
Even the rustling of leaves has stopped.
A drop of sleeping memory trickles
In the tinkling chasm of the heart.
Quail cry of some bygone emotion
Has just escaped from a dilapidated dream.

Advertisements

Author:

Born as a child of human... nourished intellect enough to juggle with words to create few copyright statements (though inspired :P)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s