Nothing is clear –
Like rain drops
That fall into the ocean
And disappear,
So are these wisps.
Are they mere thoughts?
Perhaps Imaginings?
Or are they real?
More importantly,
What do they mean?
Why have they chosen
To haunt, not just the mind,
But also the body?
As much as you try
To resist and to deny,
It slowly becomes clear,
You are unraveling;
And that this deep seated fear
Of stark exposure,
May drive you to the edge
Of your threadbare sanity.
The soul that stood
At the precipice
Of the other world,
Before stepping into
The earthly realm,
Wondered what it held,
As possibility.
The soul has stayed
For far too long,
And the possibilities,
Never too many to begin with,
Have dwindled down to virtually none.
This tiptoeing through life,
Seeps into its depth,
Draining its very essence;
Just like the being it inhabits,
The soul feels crushed beyond repair,
Under the unbearable weight
Of lukewarm-turning-cold tea like despair.
I
The girl who stood alone
in the middle of a crowd
had no words in defence
against their allegations.
Perhaps her mind
was already lost
in the nothingness
of yesterday.
II
I could rage.
I could mope.
I could despair.
There is merit in each,
profit in none.
This tug of war
that has begun
in the nether
of my being
may be the end of me.
And why not?
From where I stand
and look out
over the plains,
everything appears
a vague mist
spreading over
a hazy nothingness.
No forms
to hold on to.
No contours
to envision.
No trills
to lend my ears to.
No—
there is nothing
but nothingness:
a blank, black wall
of only it.
III
Perhaps I’ll never know
what lies beyond
this massive wall,
a virtual blank
my mind grapples around—
like someone blinded
by a sudden flash
of intense light.
Only,
there is no amount
of blinking rapidly
that can break this barrier
between knowing
and knowing.
I
“Perhaps the fragrance,
Of the dainty roses
On the rose bush,
In the garden on the corner,
Will serve to elevate,
My despondent spirit”,
I think, as I walk
Around the block.
On another day,
I sit on a wooden bench,
Under a very benevolent maple,
Its gorgeously decadent foliage,
Casting a ripple of sunshine,
On my dark coat sleeve,
And I grasp at the warmth
From the autumn sun,
Hoping it will sink deep
Drenching my weary soul.
I decide then,
That the kitchen garden
Of a tiny cottage,
Sat amidst the verdant green
On a lonely mountain,
Would be the perfect antidote
To this treacherous poison,
That runs deep within,
My aging veins.
II
No fragrant scent,
Nor pretty scene,
Nor indeed,
The warmth of the sun,
Could hold a candle,
To the pitch black,
Of this endless darkness.
In stories you will never come across,
Two characters with the same name,
Every person sits neatly with their lot,
Of identity, relationships and traits, that fit the plot.
In stories you will find a thread,
To bind the beginning, middle, and end,
It is the same thread that ties together,
Every act performed by each character.
The stories we have heard, growing up,
The stories we read, and the ones we watched
Come to life on screens, small and big,
Are just that – fables wrapped in gossamer.
The stories we watch unfold,
As we live out our days on earth,
Are stories from a different mould,
Names, plots, threads, and all,
Melded in a large frothing pot,
Of twisted realities that seek to leave you shaken,
Fact indeed, is vastly different,
To its tame alter ego – canned fiction.
Everyone is afraid,
Of disrupting
The natural order of things,
In their little world.
Nobody really admits
That this fear exists,
In a corner of their heart,
Or mind, or wherever it is,
That these things take root.
But it is perchance why,
Such things as faith,
Or even the lack thereof,
Came into being.
Those who believe
In a greater power,
Refuse to let go,
Even for a wee bit,
For what if this power
Got upset, and unleashed fury
All over their little world?
And those who don’t,
You know… believe in the greater power,
Sat in clouds or beyond,
Hold on to their belief,
In that lack of belief,
As that’s the thing that holds,
Their little world afloat.
But if a little world,
Should someday shatter,
Not from lack of care,
But despite it,
The mantle of belief,
Or its lack thereof,
Is discarded,
And in its stead,
Is left behind,
A broken shell,
Of what was once,
A promise.
Image Credit: Photo by Edu Lauton on StockSnap
There is a fading
That creeps upon you,
In the busyness of life.
One that you don’t realise,
Is nigh upon you,
Until your breath,
Is lost in its mist;
And when you try
To reach out,
To touch that whiff,
You see each finger,
Gently disappear,
As if it were never here,
And it is then,
That it occurs to you –
That you are fading.
There is a fading
That is welcome,
One you’ve waited for,
For far too long.
So when you see them disappear,
Each bony finger,
You breathe a sigh of relief,
And prepare to give in,
To the approaching fading.
Image credit: Photo by Dewang Gupta on StockSnap
Bullies can come disguised,
As friendly, cheerful allies.
Beware!
For the friendly smile,
That lights up their eyes,
Might just dim,
The faint spark in yours.
You could spend years,
And perchance shed tears,
Before you realise,
That their sweetest smiles,
And the most perfect words,
Wrapped in concern
And to top,
A bow of commiseration –
Are not quite enough,
To conceal their deceit.
And though they might be,
Among all other friends,
The very best,
For all the rest –
For you, they’d still be,
The worst bully,
You ever did see,
And that is fine,
It’s not your fault,
And it never was,
Though they might try,
To have you believe,
Otherwise.
The solitary note of music,
Wafting through the hillside,
Carries on its waning strain,
A story of untold pain.
What began as a wholesome melody,
Vibrant, and at once lively,
Captivating an enraptured audience,
Through its soul touching harmony,
Petered to a faint tune,
One you might chance upon
Once in a blue moon,
To remind you of what once was,
Soul touching, enthralling music,
Perchance like meeting,
A long forgotten cousin
At a family wedding.
Does every story that begins
On a bedrock of promise,
Stumble along its way and fall
Headlong into the shadows,
And does nobody notice,
The music growing faint, distant?
And the story losing its sheen?
Does nobody dare stand up to say,
Not that ending for that story,
Let it live another day?
The eager new house owner,
And their freshly appointed landscaper,
Both unanimously agreed,
And so the former decreed,
That the lonesome tree,
In the centre of the garden,
Should be replaced,
By a magnificent fountain,
Serving as a birdbath,
For the scores, no, hundreds,
Of chirruping little birds,
Flitting amongst the bushes.
When the tree came down,
Not with a thud, for it was removed,
Almost piecemeal, a branch at a time,
There was rustling, and some chirruping,
But mostly, there was silence.
The fountain now stands,
Majestically in the centre,
Of a verdant, brightly hued garden,
And the water gurgles, ripples and tumbles,
But there are no birds anywhere to be seen.
Chasing Sunshine 