The rain ceased.
Yet, my turbulence
did not ease.
The knowledge:
sights and sounds of rumours,
truth with lies interwoven.
Fear that it might be fiction
and fear that it might not be.

Shall I...
or shall I not?
Must I,
may I not?
Dare I-
No, I dare not.

An innate insecurity shall the whispered tale
find the much needed room
to grow. And grow.
-adapted from a poem written in 2005.

Suddenly thought of this poem written long ago. No idea why though. Just feeling morose, probably.