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…