One of Many

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This here is right where I should have been all along . I have been here in Siena for the past few weeks and no other place felt so much like home . I wandered in this place like I belonged here .My room , the garden my balcony faced and the piazza that I walked into ,day in and day out, belonged to me .My mind fit into the quaintness of this place like a missing piece of a unsolved puzzle .It felt like meeting an unknown friend with whom you want  to be acquainted with ,forever. ! I would walk in the ups and downs of patterned shadows , panting to climb and running down for the sheer pleasure of being here. The church bells would ring without any reason and I would be hearing music that played in my head with every new turn. I didn’t need headphones to listen to Miles Davis play . Everything wasn’t pretty to me.The things that annoyed me, I would catalog it for another day , for now I marvel at the fresh bloom of red  flowers that I don’t care to know the name of , perching on the green shuttered window. I take snapshots of the daylight and even the rain in the minds eye.I look out to the tiled roofs outside proseco in hand .No wonder I never felt out of place here. I rediscovered something I knew all along .This thought for now is just enough , despite the impending goodbyes.

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Burberry

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Image ,

The empty room contains,

a presence unexplained ,

The exact shade of Burberry ,

That drew the picture for me.

 

Walking in a street of myriad colors

Oh! you would have felt them all ,

Seeing a smile perched on the sill ,

You would have laughed back.

The markets and the wines,

would take you to places,

Passing by this impossible definition ,

just made me stare.

 

Stating the way you feel ,

While brooding about me ,

Wandering here and now ,

I search for the shadows ,

Seeing beyond the mirror ,

I recognize and wonder ,

Mother , do you see yourself in me ?

 

13th of July

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Done and Undone ,

Worn out like the ground ,

The rain pelts to surround ,

roomed into a hole for an escape.

Goodbyes are too many,

Repeated until worthless,

Can’t be without ,

Scarred sans the security of it.

Turning and looking back,

Burning the picture of mind,

Wishing you normalcy ,

Changing portals,

To vanish into thin air .

Where lines meet the edge

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The tables talk here ,

Without the noise of space,

White sets the mood ,

Beginning with the background of grey ,

Eames makes the water gurgle ,

The silence reflects the name.

There isn’t much happening,

yet its there ,

It makes you think,

It makes you stare.

Losing focus ,

Not of spindly legs or shiny cutlery ,

It darts along the room,

Masking the petty ;

Never would have been an experiment ,

Sans the conviction or the solemnity .

These edges that meet the lines,

With textures that meld ,

Together by  default intentions.

A vindication of light and seasons.

Translating to a pedestal for conversation ,

 The lines meet their edge for an designed reason.

In this  private cocoon ,

One wanders ,

To understand

Why they feel so content here .

Siena of mind

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A story undulated,
Images like never before,
Adaptations of the truest,
Worn like a gauntlet,
Maybe a medallion unexplored.

Etchings of broken fences ,
Textures of missing spaces,
Voids of new beginnings,
Stuck under arches of shut doors.

Open naves to a world so small,
Drifting through patterns ,
Crisscrossing the words ;
Of motifs and colours,
In the loop of music,
Of a song unheard,
A story undulated.