Colour-less.


Through the clouds,
Tearing past the fog,
Like a shrill whistle,
Did the sun shine.

The light that day was dim,
The sun did not want to be loud,
There was mist everywhere,
All seemed gloomy without a doubt.

All was either grey, black or white,
No other colour seemed sound,
It was as if nature had been robbed of its tastes and color,
Mother Nature also sadly frowned.

Not even the colorful seemed to add colour,
Her eyes shallow, there was a lump in her throat,
For it was actually the air that was drab that day and nothing made sense,
Like an excited overseas parcel, but unseemingly containing only an EMPTY NOTE!

– Stuti

The lady in red.


The road so dense,
The traffic harsh.
A rain so strong,
The wind hit hard.

Snow pure white,
Laced like cotton.
Wine so nice,
Waiting, not forgotten.

A room with a fire crackling loud,
Setting the temperature at peace.
A brown little cat in the corner,
Warm and nice and meek.

A baby cuddled in a blanket yellow,
Slowly falling to sleep.
Everything dull yet nice,
Tuning in like a melody.

She picked her coat and looked around,
Put out the light and left.
She set the tone right with the colour that winter night,
The young bright lady in RED.

-Stuti

Black Kohl.


Her eyes black kohl laden,
She dreamt but her dreams were black.
She tried to wipe the soot away,
But it stuck there, there in the deep black shack.

She didn’t know how to wipe the colour,
She didn’t know how to keep it,
She knew it had to go but,
The black too dense and bleak-ed.

Next day she did not apply the black,
She put some brown instead.
Surprising as this was,
At day ending, it turned black and dead.

She tried to understand the significance of this black,
A black blacker than black it was.
When finally she understood it (or so she thought),
The purpose of the black was to make the other colours SHOW.

-Stuti

The pink umbrella.


And as the rain peter panned on her window,
She picked up her pink umbrella and went for a stroll.
The rain slashing on her umbrella,
She felt uneasy.

Her choice of clothes, black that day,
Her choice of words, none that day.
The brown puddle of mud, gave her peace,
The wet roadside, as if made her tension release.

And then after she had walked down more miles than she realised,
Her yellow boots made some noise.
She paused, looked around,
And threw away her lovely umbrella in the air.

As the wind carried it away to she didn’t know where,
She said a silent prayer,
Not caring that her black mascara streamed down her face,
Making her black tee blacker.

It struck her why she must have chosen to wear this-
For neither tears, nor rain, nor the streaming mascara,
Could leave a mark on this colour,
And given her messy life now, she couldn’t ask for MORE.

-Stuti

Footprints of my heart..


There far away where the sun shines,
My heart will settle and stay fine.
I may or may not continue to be here,
But my heart, words and footprints shall for forever be left behind.

Effectively my heart still lingers onto memories those,
It is stuck, does not move, will not budge.
But now I hire all the strength in the world,
To push them away, make them go.

And as I pay all the coins I have for this,
I give up my riches and yet become richer.
My poor soul laments in the joy of peace,
But heart sticks onto and pushes for the greeds.

It is hurt, and gruesomely bruised,
My heart sings a song and demands a truce.
It fought like a warrior in times very bad,
It stood like a wall, strong as a dad.

But now it asks for permission to retire, to leave,
It is no so old, yet tired and turning meek.
Where it desired to witness the pinks and reds in life,
It only got blue and green and then turned COLOURLESS.

-Stuti