Tuesday, August 18, 2009


And a world existed beneath that placid lake, a world nobody knew of.
Dark, as the very depths of hell.
Violence, that betrayed violence itself.
It frightened her, to venture there, close as it was to her.
Night after night she sat, desperate for a cure.
But there came none, willing to enter.
None - willing to brave the sorrow.
None - who even knew.

For there was none
Who took the trouble;

The trouble to know her at all.


nj... said...

that was a lapse in blogging.. glad to have something to read on this URL again :)

Pratz said...


Aarish said...

the best quality of poetry, they say, is that it should be personal and yet universal. This one fits the bill; it's a great write

Anonymous said...

did she take trouble to know herself and what is the self made up of?

Var said...

@ Aarish - Thank you :-)

@ Anon - I THINK I might know who you are.... :-p

Nevertheless, you're right.....
She didn't :-/