Melancholy of the Unsung Days and November Rains

1) Sugar quoted talks.
Deceived illusions of magic.
Uncanny reality.
Reality hallucinated in odd hours.
Sitting by the brook and being in love with the city lights and cloudscapes.
Sedatives for my soul?
Or maybe it's just being caught up in the moment.

Melancholy of the Unsung Days and November Rains

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2) On fallen peels of broken leaves.
The breeze at this moment is intoxicating. 
Sweeps up dreams of a happy forever.
Drifting me away from a melancholy called "life".
Did the lights guide me home?
Home ?
It's just another place!
Extracts and bits of the never so stagnant clouds sent a letter of resonance.
The letter consisting of a welcome message to their humble abode.
Was that home to me?
At some point in time, we all believed in cloud castles .
Didn't we? 
Yes, possibly, that home to me.

3) Floating Greetings from a Happy World.
Life did happen a long time ago, the times of love, the times of therapy, the times of trimmed and uncanny emotions. 

Lost in a fragile monotony of flashbacks and tinted lights.
Brewing conversations about adultery mainly consisted of dead hopes and lost dreams.
Oblivion to those broken pathways, and living with bruises and scars.
In the midst of all these, did you miss out the cries of the dead heart on cold nights? Or did you ignore the tear drop that fell on your cheek?
Another happy soul, buried itself in the graveyard, under the evident moonlight.

Melancholy of the Unsung Days and November Rains

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4) Far from the maddening crowd, where constellations were vivid. Battles were a common thing between dreams and reality. Some mistook them, some thought them to be their very own, some struggled for them. Ultimately, all survived on them.

Far from the maddening crowd, in some smoke-filled room. Living was still a myth, life's basic necessities were the only surviving spree.

Far from the maddening crowd some still lived on shattered dreams. Picking up petals and attempting to knit them all together. Somehow soaking into the monochrome, and watching the vibrancy fade.

5) Of burned charcoal that fell in rhythm with the nostalgia. Of empty canvas stroked with abstracts and pages of a diary, filled with scratches. Of thoughts left wandering away somewhere. Of imaginations being limitless. Of moments captured and preserved, for an eternity. Art will always remain to be a revolution from the burning past.

Melancholy of the Unsung Days and November Rains

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6) Distressed and drained :
On brewing coffee, 
Forgotten aroma of conversations lies under drenched memories. 
Through the window, 
beyond the dark, the silver moon still shines. 
A shadow lurks from the past, tiptoes into the times of blue, 
On Bohemian dreams , 
that appear in fragments and attempts to build a castle. 
On sedentary imagination 
Moondust and magic fetched that last extract of a tear drop. 
On memories, 
I lived and loved, listened to a hundred wine stained hearts symphony. 
On being loved, 
Letters and little notes that matter. 
On things of ephemeral beauty that leave traces .

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About the Author
Shayanki Roy Chowdhury
Never been much of a narcissist soul. An occasional scribbler of the rantings of the mind. Bibliophile and lover of almost every form of art and a movie buff, with a tinge of love for changing seasons and the mood swings, taken too seriously.