Struggle to find existence. Pages have faded yellow, but blotch on the paper still remains.

It’s there for a reason. Every stain has a story to tell. Every ink, every paper births them. That’s how legends are created

 While we burn the binds and toss them in the air, where will the ashes stray? Right down the same tree where it was born?

Rightly so, sir! The ashes will nurture the soil under its feet. Fragrance will find new home there. Words will breathe life.

Is this where the pen and the hand bears the new born faith? Does the ink always runs out and paper catch flame? We simply fail

Why do you gaze at the flames and lose heart? It’s not the written word that matters. It’s what it does to you and me. Yes.

While the heart content it pleads the soul kneels pages wreak. We have simply fallen of our chains, shame do we blame?

Guilt is trivial. It famishes the body and weakens the soul. Regret no word that’s bled on to paper or no wailing of the heart.

Scorch the stone and grab your sins by the hilt, there is no bark, no gain , ashes of the wake , dregs of words linger. Burn.

— Varun & Mitchelle

Author’s note:

This is an amalgamation of a random conversation we both had. It’s the musings of our hearts. It paints a picture. And each of you will be able to see a different story. Hope you guys like this effort. We’ll work on some more. Cheers!

Checkout Varun’s other works on http://www.lightningforthelame.blogspot.in/