The poet in me

I took a stroll down memory lane,

Looking back upon some unamended bonds,

And a few smiling memories,

And the poet in me got to work,

To form an eidetic imagery

For the stories that lay prest,

Between the sealed lips that were once verbose.

…

The wandering poetic mind,

Finds respite for my weary skin and bones,

Beyond secluded hills,

Where the blue skies merge into orange sunsets.

…

I walk hand in hand with my inner poet,

Along the seaside, leaving footprints in the sand,

Counting and recounting the memories etched,

Like lines engraved on a conch shell.

…

And in the bonfire below a star-studded night,

I open the folded pages in my journal,

That are drenched with impending downpours,

Of the love stories that did not transpire.

…

Each story embossed in a myriad of hues,

From the subliminal autumn sunsets,

To the lush spring pastures of forget-me-not blues.