Different seasons
of the year,
Thoughts come
by and hitch across.
Some for as
long as a line drawn on water,
While some like
a scar on the skin.
As a hippie
state of mind,
They wander
inside out.
To diffuse
smell of all the time
It feels
like
Begone
bitter a sweet child of mine.
Blank sometimes.
Sometimes with
tears of smile.
And all the
other times,
Like an urge
to make it by,
To live
again, either rectify.
I walk with a suitcase full of them,
And travel
between a mind-full generations.
Its a long
way to go,
I am here
sitting on a bench,
Waiting for
my next train.