Quicksand

Though perfectly working, I cannot see a thing,
For, your smile blocks every other sight,
It has settled forever on my eyes,
And doesn’t even step aside for the sunlight.

It is long since I’ve hear a different thing,
Every moment, it is the tinkle of your laughter,
It deafens my ears to everything else,
Only to be replaced with its own playful banter.

A different smell, the air could never bring,
Ever since I first smelt, the magic of your fragrance,
It was so heavy, it choked my every breath,
And became in no time my very subsistence.

A different taste might surely do a thing,
To replace the taste, the sweetness of you,
So hot and yet so sweet, all at a time,
If only, every single time, you didn’t seem so new.

Every single second that you remain on mind,
To never forget you, as if to remind,
I wish I could, but how can I,
If you choose to leave every single memory behind.

I walk on you, and bump into you,
And arise unto you, and fall asleep into you,
I swim away, only to get closer to you,
Maybe it’s because I’m mad about you.

I may seem mad to think so much about you,
But frankly, it makes me mad to forget you,
I never felt so happy about the drowning or mourning,
For such moments, I would sink into you, every new morning.

Feels exhilarating to takes such a leisurely break from some serious poems and have fun in the simple things that make up a moment. Quite how often we get too intricately involved in the figments of our own grandiose imagination that we fail to properly appreciate, or worse still totally fail to recognise the beauty that lies in the simplicity with which most things are expressed. We are so lost in the interpretation of non-existent meanings of flamboyant words that we fail to see the depth of emotions that simple words can convey, this poem for me was such an awakening.

It was the wake up call, to find back those roots for which I took to poetry before going astray with the ambition of writing something ponderous to capture the imagination of an audience. It was the call to get back on a path of self-expression, the very reason I had begun with writing in the first place, before getting sidetracked on a path of bespoilt innocence that was arbitrarily sacrificed on an altar of temporal gratification of artistic pursuits that constantly keep trying to mar my original purpose.

Anyway, just can’t stop rambling. What I wanted to say was that though it was very minimalistic compared to my other poems, it was on of my most satisfying ones, because it took me back to the path that I had intended to follow.

Thanks a lot Aparna. Even through a poem you have managed to set me on track. Guess am more happier letting this continue, than alerting you to these ‘Random Verses’ and having your honesty spoil a dream.

Talking To Walls

I wake up and see one every morning,
Because there is one on every wall adorning,
They stare at me, those eyes of yours, always asking,
Why I still make my peace with you every morning.

They follow me to the door, smiling goodbye,
Staying still, while everything else rushes by,
A click of the lock, and I step into the world,
Into such a strangeness I feel myself hurled.

Where people keep talking, but somehow not to me,
And words don’t quite mean, what they are meant to be,
They laugh, and they joke, at such trivial things,
Reminding me of the joy that every small deed brings.

Silently, I bear with them and their uncalled for happiness,
Bear it until I can get through this unfinished business,
And so keep glancing at the clock, wishing it to get running,
As I bide my time, awaiting yet another homecoming.

I rush home, unlocking the door, to none in particular,
Silently wishing, that at work I was a little more popular,
So I could bring some of them home, and introduce you,
But alas, such thoughts are quite often very few.

I look at a wall, and blurt out the dejection,
And you reply, face saddened at the rejection,
I cry my heart out, and recover in a while,
And laugh upon seeing you returning my smile.

I guess I must be lunatic, talking such things to a wall,
And sitting up nights, listening for your footfall in the hall,
Things were much different, before you clambered up that wall,
Leaving me alone, to deal, with your death, and my own downfall.

This one is dedicated to the human stamina for unlimited brooding over long-spilt milk(or should I say long-spilt tears that refuse to drop down, and instead hang on for dear life, long past the their time, solely because of the unquenchable thirst a person has for sorrow, one that grows on imbibing it and fuels the thirst for more of itself).

Frankly, there is no parasite as parasitic as sorrow, because after devouring on every single little shred of happiness and delight that it can set its eyes own, sorrow never hesitates to even devour itself, if only to further its own cause and spread its addiction into every willing thought of a person suffering from an unexpected separation.

Enough said about things that are broody, having had my fill of melancholy, can’t take any more of it myself, so am switching to something more pleasant and refreshing(surprises me how this topic never fails to refresh every time I put my pen down, it is as if it is an inexhaustible reservoir of joy) called Aparna.

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