I wrote this poem long back, in June 2005. It doesn’t obey any of the rules of a regular poem. I would call it, just a poetic thought without rhythm or rhyme.
Strange are the pictures
Hung from the walls in the gallery of life
Yet strange are the colors
Which give life to those unearthly figures
Strange are the magic ones
smiling while upright but sneering upside down..
Still strange are the faces coated with glittery smile
And fade out with droplets of salt.
Strange to see the jigsaws
Which used to be perfectly fit,
are not the same anymore..
And strange is the glue
That fastens some pieces
Which are to fall out of the frame…