The Corridoor Of Love

It's from the corridoor of my heart
I hear a light murmering of love
Like a gentle breeze, it begins to float
In the depth and deep valley of my soul

I know a picture is painting itself
On the plain wall of my love's corridoor
It begins to trouble me often; in my sleep,
At my work, and even in my loneliness

My loneliness! Blended with dreams
And blessed with the fragrance of memories
There it comes with its naughty smile
To push me back thinking of its own only........

by niranjan subhashsivan

Comments (7)

And blessed with the fragrancethanka for your line
Subhash, I really liked this write, its probably my favorite of all you’ve posted thus far… again your delicate sensibility comes shining through. -Eila
'I know a picture is painting itself'....a beautiful idea! Asma...
hi, that lab! you do it very good. once a famous philosopher named Karl Marx had said if a man falls in love and he doesn't use the poem as weapon, he is unadvisable. en, you are advisable.
A matured work. Good poem...Deb.
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