A Drizzly Morn

As the dawn of a Saturday morning brightened,

The gloomy sky darkened,

sprouting freckles of a paler grey,

while time stood still for the day.

It was neither a blooming morning,

nor was it a cooler evening.

It was neither dark,

nor was it bright.

A drizzle poured silently,

the breeze blew fluently,

the grove was misty,

and the air was musty.

The steam of my cup of tea fizzled,

while the breakfast in the balcony sizzled

on our plates.

The lazy worm suddenly danced

to the tunes of the rain.

The valley wasn’t in dead silence,

but alive in peace.

Little Johnny played with the drops of the drizzle.

While Martha and I chuckled over a sweet talk,

as the newspaper sat idly on the table,

overlooking the cloudy skies.

Oh! What a morning it is!

Waking up to the musky smell,

and dancing in the balcony while it’s breezy,

and never pity the garish sun,

while the time stood still.

-by Gollapalli N V Srikar Murthy

VTC Editorial Team

About the author —

Srikar is a sophomore at VIT Vellore and now, an amateur rustic artist and painter, a highly old-fashioned photographer and a semi-professional aspiring writer and a poet with a running blog. He is goofy, geeky, intensive, ambivert, ambitious, moody and emotional. He loves to write something controversial.

He’s a late-Bollywood geek, a big Indian movie lover, and craves out-of-the-box and intriguing content, admirable and inspirational acting and sophisticated cinematography.