the setting sun..

It is a long walk ahead..
The mirrors dusty..and I cannot see..
For it is a long walk ahead..
And I already wish to give up..

I had many eyes when I had first painted the horizon..
I lost a few.. some I had shut tight ..

My hands are a little weak now..
Whatever I once held.. on the floor..
Broken.. I am not sure..
Beyond reach.. maybe..

So I hold on to everything I can feel around me..
And hence I fall flat on the face..
I re-visit the old yellow pages..
Nobody picks up the call..nobody is listening..

Probably the last call was wasted on a useless smile..
Probably the last few tears shed on a vain laugh..

Of what had always been there..
What was always supposed to stay..
Is no longer in sight..
Somehow slipped off..all this while held tight..
it isn’t a material missing off the shelf..
not a person less in the book..
it is just the self we're supposed to love the most…
it is just the setting sun..