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Chitra Iyer

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I hardly see it these days The naked beauty of nature My eyes wear blinkers of sophistication They are a pampered lot They see through an overthinking mind A mind that traces words on the electronic space prompting fingers to move furiously serving an already overwrought mind longing for a release. My eyes if only I had dipped them in nature's greens and not let them go green with envy If only I had let them see reality and not revel in falsity If only I had sufficient insight to shine on them my heart's light Wouldn't i have disrobed sophistication and embraced nature's simplicity with alacrity? #cinemagraph #pennpopcorn #pickaline150

I hardly see it these days The naked beauty of nature My eyes wear blinkers of sophistication They are a pampered lot They see through an overthinking mind A mind that traces words on the electronic space prompting fingers to move furiously serving an already overwrought mind longing for a release. My eyes if only I had dipped them in nature's greens and not let them go green with envy If only I had let them see reality and not revel in falsity If only I had sufficient insight to shine on them my heart's light Wouldn't i have disrobed sophistication and embraced nature's simplicity with alacrity? #cinemagraph #pennpopcorn #pickaline150

Ashu

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•I think your armchair's dead• //Scroll the caption. •I think your armchair's dead• I think your armchair's dead. Dead in sense is turning brown. And the brown that covers yours is turning floppy. And it comes from the autumn wafting like the staccato from the punching of yours on a hard surface, hitting the play button. Yet its repair is bereft to be gaudy and run fast like you did while jogging in the garden full of white daises and black grass. And when I ran behind you, my eyes see its colour and those impart it on my eyes and my eyes phor th

•I think your armchair's dead• //Scroll the caption. •I think your armchair's dead• I think your armchair's dead. Dead in sense is turning brown. And the brown that covers yours is turning floppy. And it comes from the autumn wafting like the staccato from the punching of yours on a hard surface, hitting the play button. Yet its repair is bereft to be gaudy and run fast like you did while jogging in the garden full of white daises and black grass. And when I ran behind you, my eyes see its colour and those impart it on my eyes and my eyes phor th