Chasing Sunshine

I find myself
One fine day,
Walking down
A rather treacherous trail,
Well trodden nevertheless,
With countless steps,
Built along the way
To guide wayfarers.

We are each,
On our own,
And yet,
Not quite alone;
For we are all together,
In our collective sojourn.

I pause a while,
To catch my breath,
As I stand at the cusp,
Of a steep fall,
Looking down,
On the verdant green
Of the valley,
That stretches out –
Its tallest trees,
Mere footnotes,
In the vast expanse,
Of the resplendent landscape.

And then it strikes me,
That much like the trees,
I am but,
A tiny bit
Of an enormous whole,
And if I would,
I perchance could,
Blend in with,
And become one
With the collective,
Just as on this day,
And in this moment,
I breathe in the air
Of the welcoming mountains.

The walls of this prison
Appear dark, ominous,
You’ve been trapped within,
For years and years;
You didn’t know when,
You were locked in,
Each day, every moment,
Blends in with the next,
And all you know,
Is that you still exist.

You can let the walls
Close in on you,
Depriving you of air
To breathe in,
Arresting your breath,
And nudging you closer to death;
Or, you can summon,
A strength so superhuman,
One you didn’t know
You possessed,
And bring down the walls,
A la Samson,
And finally breathe in,
Dust and all,
The air that reeks,
Of priceless freedom.

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Living is ordinary,
Often mundane,
It is the only way of being,
That you’ve ever known,
As opposed to,
How not to.

Living is taxing,
In more ways than one,
There are places
To go to,
And many things
To get done,
Even the most basic ones;
But together,
They add one onto one,
Leading to many moments,
Of being hard done.

Living is often
Fraught with pain,
As you go through phases,
You would rather not;
Being hard pressed,
For time, action, words, and grace,
You stare into the face,
Of impossible situations,
When you wish to transport,
To another place,
Or another continuum,
Of time and space;
But more often than not,
You persist,
Because that is all,
You’ve ever known.

Living can bring joy,
In the most mundane,
Of random moments;
When you watch the sun rise,
The birds in the sky,
Or a pretty butterfly;
When you hold your child,
And hug him tight;
When you rest your head,
In the comfort of your bed,
At the end of a long day,
Of living and trying;
In each of these pauses,
You come to find,
A semblance of purpose,
To living this life.

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Little children
Are full of wonder,
And often eager,
To try things
Differently;
And this is why,
Countless bugs,
Glow worms and beetles,
Have found themselves,
Trapped in match boxes,
And glass bottles,
Over the centuries,
To satisfy,
The curious sparkle,
In a child’s eye.

In growing up,
We shed the trappings,
Of our innocence,
And as the wonder
Of childhood,
Gives way to adolescence,
We forget our trysts,
With macabre experiments,
On ants, bugs and beetles;
We release our minds,
To soar beyond,
The confines of our homes,
Into distant realms,
Much like the little creatures,
That we set free
From their boxes,
Into the wild,
Where they truly belong.

And yet,
There are those,
Who do not;
There is the child
Who grows,
To relish the hurt,
Of a tiny bug
In captivity –
The child who grows,
To be that person who knows,
To seek their release,
In the cowering fear,
That they see in the eyes,
Of the powerless

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A promise –
Does it include
The sweet nothings,
That lovers choose,
To whisper,
To each other,
As they lie in embrace,
Before the night,
Has given birth
To a new dawn;
Sans witnesses,
To keep record
Of their promises?

A promise –
Is it the gift
Of newfound hope,
That a parent
Bestows,
On a wide eyed child,
Who has just asked,
For a precious little something,
That would brighten up
Their innocent life?

A promise –
Is it the hint
Of a new beginning,
That’s embedded
In the core,
Of the day’s ending,
When the sun slips away,
Quietly into the west,
Leaving the world
Cocooned in rest?

A promise,
Could mean
Different things,
Depending on
Who’s receiving.

The only certainty
Around promising
Is this –
When it isn’t kept,
A promise leaves,
In its wake,
A broken soul.

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The hourglass sits
At its perch,
On the windowsill,
As it always has;
Marking time,
As it passes,
Catching the reflection
Of the leaves,
Of the maple tree
In the garden;
From verdant green,
To resplendent yellow,
And thereafter,
Of the limbs, mellow,
In their nakedness.

The hourglass is mute,
Both as a spectator,
And as a keeper,
Of the passage of time;
As it glows,
In the warmth
Of the summer sun,
And turns frigid
When that orb retreats,
It fails not,
To reflect,
And to mark time,
Timelessly.

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Quiet –
The state of mind
You desire.

Fretful –
The state your mind assumes
Eventually.

Peace –
Any semblance of which
You find lacking.

Happiness –
The pursuit of it
Has remained elusive.

Reflection –
A labyrinth you’ve chosen
To get trapped in.

Image Credit: Photo by Bernard Spragg on StockSnap

“Oh to be free”
Thought she
“Like the bird in the sky
Or as it it flies
From tree to tree.”

From her seat,
Down below,
A mere few feet
Above the ground,
It did appear,
Very much as though,
That the skies held the promise
Of limitless freedom,
That was missing down below.

The thoughts she held
Deep within her,
Begged for release;
And stringing them together
As soulful music,
Woven into verse, esoteric,
Seemed pointless.

“Nay!”,
Her heart seemed to say,
“Give me the wings,
To soar high
Into the sky,
And sing –
And sing in wild abandon,
So I could shed the burden,
Of this music
You’ve locked within me;
For to be able to fly,
Is to be able to breathe,
Truly breathe,
It is to be able to be free.”

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“I won’t get this right”
You think,
“Not now, not ever”.

In some ways,
You weren’t meant to,
It was a battle
You were destined to lose;
But you didn’t know it then,
And you certainly didn’t choose,
To be let loose
Into a veritable lions’ den.

Not without the slightest hint,
Or a semblance of preparation;
And now you are in there,
Quite literally ensnared,
And quite the spectacle,
For an arena of mute spectators.

You swallow the lump,
Rising in the hump
Of your throat,
And you stare,
Right into the eyes
Of the monsters,
Closing in on you,
Ready to give in,
And yet, not quite ready,
To give up in defeat.

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Where was the wind,
When the love notes,
Needed sending,
From across the chasm,
That separated the lovers?

Where was the earth,
When all they wanted,
Was a patch of land,
On which to lie down,
And share a moment?

Where was the ocean,
When they sought to flee,
From the angry mob,
Of duelling families,
That found offense
In their union?

Where was the fire,
When their only desire,
Was to be consumed,
By the flames
Of their passion,
Instead of giving hold,
To their assailants?

Where was space,
The expanse of it,
To create for them
A measure of distance,
From those giving chase?

In the end,
None of it mattered,
As they lay twisted
In each others arms,
Their union,
Now out in the open,
Albeit ensconced,
In the embrace of death.

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