Scribbles - 1

Images float

at the back of my hut

and I still dare not dream

of the nights and days

that could have been.

We never could finish sentences in rhymes

nor could we repeat lines and couplets

but we used strokes and splashes 

of colors and winter afternoons

like a tribal frenzy.

In the moonlit night

fire, stories, and songs

could anything else fit better in a story?

We never had answers or questions

like rocks

What we had

slipped

like sand

from our thin long fingers

and some got stuck

in the crevices

and Dahlia would clean them

with her soft and melancholic hands

There were so many of those

hands

rough, soft, a dark brown, a sickly yellow, shiny palms

but they all loved us and fed us

those summer nights

the same hands would ruffle our hair and make us sleep

My neighbour, 

in her tattered slippers

and me with none

would run across to the other house

the bluish-purple berries

staining our cotton frocks

Yellow and Green afternoons

extended like

ghosts

and Ended.

The river sang Songs,

and we played Hopscotch,

we believed we entertained.

Golden Sqaures where people

scratched their old and wrinkled knees

Did they watch

Others wishing to live lives of the 

Kings & Queens in a pack of cards

Or Did they await death?

So much and many more

beautiful things of our childhood could perhaps 

go 

and write itself beautifully on our graves...