And here we are, back at scribbling on a blank page,
me and some broken dreams, long dead;
more than one, decomposed down to their skeletons.
The heap of crumpled pages grow like algaes
around the banks of a moribund pool;
the blackish water nourishing that growth is me!
Bathing in the moonlit breeze of sweet March,
the astray dogs grow silent for a while,
relieved of their worries of staying alive,
until their memories, with a vengeance, return.
And here we are, trying to scribble out the blankness of a page –
some broken feathers and an inkwell, almost dry.
Perhaps some pages are meant to remain that way
as this empty soul without a purpose to its wretched life!
I bought liberty at the cost of life.
For the freedom to close my heart and eyes
on the glittering brightness of the world,
I said adieu to my remaining days.
Not necessarily though, I have died;
if one could proclaim, to breathe is living
and breaths stacked on laborious breath is life!
Do we only die with our final breath?
The desire to live is a common thing,
found in all life, static or on the run
and the desire to grow and replicate
but if that is so than from the moment
of my birth I have been barely alive,
for the ever gnawing emptiness, lodged inside!
The final countdown has begun,
cruel winter is coming to the temple and the crown.
Feting the unweeded growth of life, I should have known
her majesty, Death, has many faces, of which
too much life is the devious one!
O sweet life, how I longed for thee
in my fretful dreams and my sleepless wanderings,
a loner, walking on the lonely path of life
and though the final hour is at hand, now I know,
blessings can be veiled ironies!
One, who has lived his entire life
in dire poverty, how fitting it is
that the tragic end of his walk should be
steeped in such filthy abundance!
The rancid realization clings to life,
that most of it is predefined by things
way beyond its own mere grasp, like the borders
of its origin and inheritance!
What can a life do about whence it came?
This life that responds to a certain name,
with certain aspirations held inside
a thick shell of skin with eyes, ears and limbs
and the face of a wanderer was born
with nothing, in nowhere, to oblivion!
Could it have settled down accepting the accepted norms?
But it’s way too late to wonder what could have been,
this river in spate has almost run its due course,
let this spent life pass its remaining hours wrapped in a dream!
Still you’d say, death would not have been better
than this life of looking the other way,
of silent compromise with the devil
and perchance even worse! “But tomorrow…”
Yes, what this afternoon was yesterday;
that is how tomorrows will ever be
a past hope, an illusion in the end!
Still you’d root for friends over solitude,
as if our company and partners say
more of us than what we are underneath
and perchance even lie! “But a real friend…”
A wolf, hidden behind the face of man;
that is how all friends will turn out to be,
a promise, that was shattered in the end!