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  • mistyme 55w

    Late night thoughts

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    There is no happy ending really.
    Even in a novel,
    As the story ends, we just stop living with the characters anymore.
    While they live.
    And then die.
    Inevitable death.
    The true ending.
    Is never happy.


  • mistyme 87w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 6 word one-liner on Galaxy

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    Twinkling eyes held in them, galaxy.

  • mistyme 117w

    Siting in the dark corner, hidden behind the square.
    Reminiscing, the voice of the young balloon seller.
    ' 4 ane ka ek', and the sea of myriad of colours,
    Yellows, pinks, and blues.

    Someone wanted the colour matching their frock,
    Someone decided , pink was for girls,
    Other declared, with a sense of seniority, 'Blue was in trend'.
    All colours in their hands, and some juggling in his pockets.
    Everyone with a smile at the end.

    And now;
    Empty bottles, once full, now wrecking, of smell of alcohol and sorrows, passed amongst each other on my right.

    The dingy cobwebs, on the tea-stalls, now closed for months on end, saying a tale of an unfortunate death, when an accident happened, but none said.
    Because, A rich was never to be questioned,
    And the secrets burried Alive or Dead.

    I hear a Damaru, chattering from somewhere far, and the eloquent notes of a flute at the other end.
    Once the charm, now just a source to a few notes, a solution to hunger.

    Besides me, sat a few nice gentlemen, or so I thought.
    Completely unaware of my existence.
    And me,
    Simmering each of their actions on paper,
    Whistling, teasing, bad-mouthing,
    That angelic, lad, with hazzle hair, passing on the road downtown.

    The balloon seller, wrinkled today,
    Yet again passed by my side,
    Out of the periphery of my conscious eye.
    While I blobbed my canavas with paint,
    My once yellow and pink pallete,
    Now black and grey today.
    And another masterpiece made,
    To decorate yet another solitary wall.

    The painting today looked dynamic,
    Rigged with technique.

    And the strong winds,
    Gathered all the sketches from the past,
    All spread on the pebbled road,
    Silly but , so YELLOW.

    @writersnetwork @mirakee @writerstolli @asmakhan @ericwk

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  • mistyme 118w

    This book.
    I started it, because it was about postcards.
    Well, who am I kidding.
    It was also because, it had pictures, and felt like a flashback, to the old ' noddy ' books time.

    Halfway through it, I hated it.
    I felt bored, because this book didn't have an adrenaline rush.
    I wanted to curl back to my mysteries, thrillers, books that keep u awake through the night.
    But I didn't have the heart to, leave a book midway.

    Later, a few more pages.
    A few more hours.
    And I was so much in love with it.
    I spent so much time, just smiling.
    When it was just the last 10 pages that were left, I read at the speed of a snail.
    I didn't want it to end.

    This book taught me, to NEVER GIVE UP ON SOMEONE.
    To stay.
    To love.

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  • mistyme 126w

    Escape; An illusion

    While the mystical night roll over by,
    Steanch of menance hung ,
    A little set of ponies,
    And a mid autumn lullaby.

    Cauldron on fire,
    Furry and satinic desire.
    Fumes interlacing,
    As an angel's lyre.

    Chaos smouldered and etched like shroud
    Dark beats
    Shut it out .

    Break the rues.
    Eyes clinched.


    Clinched fist.
    Eyes open.

    And an unsung tale of a battle lost.

  • mistyme 127w

    The luring voice of the windchime,
    The home of the faraway lands.
    The fire in the ornate place,
    The scent of familiar sense.
    The wooden rocking chair,
    Transcending into the thoughts forbidden.
    The dust on the photoframes,
    Waiting ,
    To fall into the forgotten rhythm.

    The tangerine summers of the west,
    Hands twining,
    Crowns of olive branches,
    And the orchids in the braid oh so french.
    The love of the childhood,
    But the rhythms of heart.
    A lub and a dub,.
    And those counting to ten.
    And to deceive who, crying.
    The chest her solace,
    Nd her lap his.
    The love of the time,
    When the currency was smiles and cheeze.
    Lips unsaid,
    Sushed how they fell in love,
    Just so young.

    The rusty ring on her finger,
    How they fell in love so young.


    Here @la_glace.
    Hola @fearspear

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    Summer of 1979


  • mistyme 131w


    The night crawled in, the moonlight, seived through the window, softly carrasing and teasing evelyn's cheek.
    She lay there, bundled up in a rainbow drappled quilt.
    'She looks like a walrus, a cute little walrus', thought James, and a squeaky stiffled laughter escaped his mouth.
    She moved a little. James bit his lip, and eyes all big.
    Those small little almondy eyes, turning huge.
    The next Evelyn was again in deep sleep.
    And James lay there looking at her, smiling, and thinking how cute they were together, and unknowingly drufted deep in sleep.
    Evelyn woke up, turned to her bedside, drank some water, layed back and looked at him, sleeping like a child.
    Innocence lined his face. The peace shone, the peace that was there because he knew he had her in bed with him.
    The thought made Evelyn have a huge smile, light her face. A soft kiss landed on his forehead, and she cupped his cheeks, looking at how fortunate she was to have him.
    How he understood her, how he held together the jigsaw. The laughters they knit together , the sweet frangrance of love that always wound up around them.
    The way he teased her to no ends, agve her stupid nicknames, but then always was also the bounce back fource for her.
    Thinking all this she hugged him, and the embrace woke him, those brown sleepy almondy eyes looking, accompanied with a smile.
    She slightly peeked his lips, and he pulled her in. They melted into each others embrace, disappearing under the quilt.
    Seconds later, laughter filled the room, as James tickled Evelyn, and the bed became all jumpy.

    The room till today thinks about the light of love, the glitter of happiness, and the song of embrace it was embellished in that day, waiting for them to return to this room, they always called there getaway home.

  • mistyme 134w

    This is the thing about unhappiness.
    It just takes something worse to come into your path, for the realisation to hit that it was happiness after all.

  • mistyme 136w

    It is the dead, who are dead and gone.
    The living have to go home.

  • mistyme 151w

    The touch gentle, gliding yet emaculate.
    A zing of passion piercing through.
    The splash of faint red,
    Adorning her.
    Fingers twirled on the body, caressing the soul.
    The softness tuned in touch.

    Just the perfect parley of the feather pen, dip in scarlet ink, wrote ornate letters.

    @la_glace : credits for helping through the writers block

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    Tilted perception