Monday, November 19, 2007

I walk on bubble toes

I sit cross-legged, twiddling thumbs and dusting off
Yesteday’s scurf
Choosing whole seasons to efface
That spring of apathy, there goes the summer of skeletons

I turn with a swish, and shoot off a thinking man’s look
Asking “what is that?”
A mirror or a photograph of my best self?
Am I the one who clings or lets go?
Is that the one who spills beans in a drunken stupor, or
Then who do I lie to?

Before the winter too there was cold
Yet hope was there
Hope only stayed faithful to young years
Crossed-out calendars hence, they live apart and fragile

Time has been stripped off, shred
And all that is left now is a want
Without history or chronology
I may say more, or less
But all that will come out is a version of that want

I lie here in the sink
A crusted, burnt pan
Dumped under a column of running water
Waiting to be wiped shiny clean
Then put on the stove to stew flavors


Pri said...

hmmm...some intense lines there...
good one!
keep writing! :)

satyajit said...

pri: thank you

Shishir said...

good one baba..

Psyche said...

Write something new!!!!

Charl said...

Yes do! And you too, you, Psyche—you're nothing better, hon.

Ergo said...

Psyche! Change your comment settings on your blog! I can't comment there!!

And write out your vows ya. I'm curious to know what you intended to say before you were quieted by the stand-in priest who demanded that you be submissive to your hubby.

(Sats, sorry for having to use your comment thread to reach out to Psyche.)