Chasing Sunshine

He lies there,
On the middle
Of a paved road,
A broken heap
Of bones,
Covered by torn,
Heavily bruised skin;
The blood on his body
Has crusted,
It is no longer flowing,
His eyes are shut tight,
In unimaginable pain –
Whether from the blows
They rained in
Mercilessly,
Or the horror,
Of being caught
Red handed,
In the act of thieving,
Or the shame,
Of bearing the humiliation,
So open, as if on display,
For everyone to see,
And yet, deeply private,
His final act of desperation,
To feed his young,
And thereafter himself.

He lies there –
His hands partially covering,
His bedraggled face,
While still holding on,
To the stolen loaf
Of days old bread,
That has pushed him,
To death,
And disgrace.

He lies there –
Still,
For in death,
There is no longer
Any of that tortuous,
Demanding hunger;
While his children,
Will remain unfed
For days on end,
And then eventually,
Be driven to thieving,
Much like him –
To quell the pangs,
That will rise
Deep within,
Their empty,
Demanding bellies.

Image Credit: Photo by Matt Moloney on StockSnap

Some tears,
Never flow;
They come raging in,
And then, abruptly stop,
Right at the threshold,
As if they know,
That the breath
Of fresh air
That awaits them,
Is a death blow,
In allowing the flow,
They will let go,
Of their identity,
As they get buried,
In a pillow of tissue,
Or brutally wiped off,
Or simply left to dry,
No matter how,
They seem to know,
That in due time,
They will cease to be,
Perhaps that is why,
Some tears,
Never flow.

Image Credit: Photo by Milada Vigerova on StockSnap

A deep hole
Exists,
Where once
There was none,
And within it,
Apparently,
An endless pit,
Of a profound,
And debilitating
Composition,
Of shame,
And grief,
Or perhaps
Something else,
It fumes,
And churns,
Like a witch’s potion,
It neither drains,
Nor runs out,
Of effervescence,
Occasionally,
It does settle,
But not enough,
For the laying
Of a bridge
Across the chasm
To the other side.

Image Credit: Photo by Joel Filipe on StockSnap

Each room
In this dilapidated home
Has a story to tell –
Its faded walls,
With paint peeling off,
Were once adorned,
With letters, numbers
And stick figure art,
All of which,
Came to life,
Every now and then,
In the throes,
Of windless summer nights,
Playing with the shadows,
Cast by tiny fingers,
Against the backdrop,
Of flickering candlelight.

So too, every window,
In this once long ago home,
They each have captured
In their broken frames
Tales from the yester years,
When they portrayed the charm,
Of out worldly artwork
As it appeared,
To the little pair
Of curious eyes,
Ever desperate to explore,
Beyond the confines
Of the little home.

The front and back yards,
Were like palace grounds,
Changing colour,
And contour,
To transform,
From the mundane
To the sublime,
A perpetual source
Of beauty and bounty
Enough to evoke
Wide eyed wonder
In the tiny beholder.

Decades later,
There is no place
To go back to,
The cherished home,
With its walls and windows,
And stately grounds,
Is all but gone,
Decaying before
The weary eyes
Of the life sore
Beholder.

Image Credit: Photo by Imtiaz Hossain Emu on StockSnap

At first they were,
But mere whispers,
Spoken in hushed tones,
Wafting through the corridors
On the wings
Of the unseasonal chill,
Of the summer breeze.

Not long thereafter,
They gathered strength,
Repeated as they were,
By a few hundreds,
So whilst they were
Still whispers,
They were by nature,
And by intent,
Profoundly loud,
And very clear.

As they now reverberated,
Through the same corridors,
Seeking to devour
The lonesome soul,
Who stood alone,
And quite apart,
By themself,
In a dank corner,
Shivering from the chill,
Of the tempestuous whispers.

Image Credit: Photo by Skitter Photo on StockSnap

I

I’m scared
Of opening the blinds,
And letting the light,
Flood in to the room;
Revealing its dark corners,
Dusty and rank –
I would rather
Keep it bolted,
Its blinds drawn down,
Even when
The birds are chirping,
The skies are blue,
And the fiery sun
Shines brightly on;
I would rather
It stay closed,
And bitterly dark,
I would rather
Retreat within,
And hide myself
For a million heartbeats.

II
There is no place,
For what I feel,
To be let known,
To be revealed –
This world, as big
As it is,
Is seemingly not enough,
It does not have
An apt space,
Where I can let down,
And then,
Gently open,
This heavy baggage,
And let go,
Of what lies hidden,
Deep within –
No space has been made,
No, none exists,
Where it will not
Be met with prejudice,
Where I will not
Have to let go,
Of the remnants
Of my shattered dignity,
Once more –
All over,
Again.

Image Credit: Photo by Tim Arterbury on StockSnap

We have shifted –
We truly have,
In the good old days,
The grocer always
Packed grocery
In newspaper bags,
The making of which,
Was a cottage industry!
Those were the days,
When we packed our own
Water bottles,
To carry with us,
Wherever we went,
Bottled water for sale,
Belonged in a fairy tale,
Much like gingerbread houses;
As was a mobile telephone,
That could fit in your pocket
And play songs and music,
Like a gramophone!

When I reminisce,
Of the days bygone,
My children listen,
All agog –
Not unlike me,
When I was five or six,
Wondering at the lack
Of electric power,
To light lamps,
And run ceiling fans,
When my mother,
Was a mere child.

We have shifted,
Indeed we have,
Just as those,
Who’ve come before,
Have done and gone on –
Each generation,
Has their time,
Under the fiery sun,
To do their thing,
And learn some,
And then to shift gear,
And move on,
To the next sphere,
Of existence.

The brook by the house
In the valley,
Overlooked by the hill,
Is as noisy
As it is happy,
As it gurgles by,
Catching the glint
Of the sun ray,
As if winking its eye.

The house in the valley,
Stands still in contrast,
To this merry passerby;
Its red brick walls,
And shutter boards,
Bearing mute witness
To the brook’s frolicking;
Together they paint
A lovely picture,
An inviting abode,
Set amidst bountiful nature,
A spot as full of peace,
As can possibly be.

Image Credit: Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on StockSnap

One among a million,
And yet, why do I
Feel all alone?
Why do the beats,
Of a multitude of hearts
All around me,
Fail to ignite,
A spark of energy?

Why do some souls,
Drop down below,
Without an anchor
To hold on to?
Wandering this realm
Of perpetual blue,
Looking for a spot,
To rest a while, to stop,
And look in the eyes,
Of another soul,
Or perchance, a few,
And say,
“I’m glad I found
My home in you”

Image Credit: Photo by Travel Coffee Book on StockSnap

You sleepwalk through life,
Not knowing at times,
Where you are headed to;
Your hands held out,
Unseeing, your eyes,
You stumble more,
Than you actually walk,
But if you looked back,
You’d notice,
A set of footprints,
Not perfectly placed,
And yet,
Footprints nevertheless,
A motely pair,
Heralding your progress.

Image Credit: Photo by Bernard Spragg on StockSnap