Hiding behind the kitchen wall, A chubby girl eats chocolates; She sings all day and plays with a Barbie doll, Her restless legs now refuse to crawl. Two shiny ponytails swing turn by turn As her head revolts against boredom And moves back and forth; She says annoyingly, “How long do I wait for March 24?”
The years, Unable to keep track of untold stories, Reflected on her face with utmost honesty. That smile now beguiled some of the shiniest stars in the sky, The teary eyes plagiarized twinkling happiness And died every moment in the fire of a new lie. Her restlessness has succumbed to contemplative rantings, Yet she has her childish ways of loving herself. A daring sweetheart with a heart of straw, She says, “I turn twenty four and I’m bold. Even by mistake, don’t call me old.”
The doleful night begs for a calm closure, Sleepless eyes hanker for darkness; Nostalgia screams out in agony, To get rid of it’s existence. I wonder, How strong is my Persistence?
Whenever I look back, I see your eyes stealing the smile Of your lips locked up by Denial. Seconds spin yarns in seconds To give rise to a number of years; You stand behind me, Ageless, flawless and speechless.
You dwell in the intricacies of my silence; Words flow out of my eyes as droplets of Reminescence. Trials of forgetting you have Etched your presence deeply on my mind. Far away from the ‘Fading Green’, We will see each other in the woods, Once again. And there, you will be mine.
I cannot see that hand;
The one that held mine loosely,
Leaving me perplexed.
Observations fall prey to a bizarre delusion,
Truth acts like yesterday’s hallucination.
Wrapped in the robes of action,
Your eyes narrate concoctions of passion.
Words entwine subtle gestures,
Obscuring reality from deception.
Disappearing smiles besiege me ad nauseum,
Memories prefer to stay locked up in the Museum.
Ruminations guide me into a land not known;
Dead ends break into labyrinths of life,
To honour the quest of my toes.
I keep on lighting extinguished candles,
Burning my fingers in the fire of woes.
A cicatrix shows up on your fist,
The real gashes are elsewhere,
Hidden behind the masquerade of ‘nowhere’.
See through it, see through it!