By Aishwarya Rajamani
Neurons, they sift the specs of memory
Dust away the new, map out a landscape,
Of all the scrap pressed under pressure
Like the piles of brown records from office.
Time-line equals the life-span
And all that is in between pop up
Waiting to be caught and clipped to the roll.
Wheels of roll exhausted,
yet there's more to be clipped and played.
Scrap that has been snipped and squared,
fit into others like a giant,complex jigsaw.
Oh! What a mess.
Oh! What can be made out of rusted, stale junk?