What if?

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What if you wake up,
One fine morning.
And don’t find me
Sleeping by your side?
What if I wake up,
In the middle of the night.
And slip out of your bed
Walk out of your life?
What if I leave no clues,
And no riddles behind.
I’m playing no games,
I’m gonna feign no smiles.
What if I say no,
To all your smiles?
Give no answers
And leave no justifications around.
What if I tell you,
That I don’t feel the magic anymore.
All the pleasures are drenched,
And all my screams are dry.
All smiles are thoughtful,
All touches hold a meaning,
All reasons are excuses.
All actions are abuse.
I miss it all,
I miss it a lot.
Those moments of blind trust,
And uncounted purposeless awaits.
Those stupid ugly gifts,
Momentary thoughtless smiles.
Those sudden screams on streets,
And fighting each other, walking miles.
What if I start again,
Doing all that I used to?
Would you accompany me?
Or would you prefer your crew?
Would you wait again?
Again for me like you used to?
Or would you this time sound,
The other way round?
Would you tell me to grow up?
Or leave all my fantasies?
What if you’re not ready
To absorb me wild again?
Just tell me now,
Without thinking of your gain.
Just tell me whatever,
Truth’s hidden in your vain.
Just tell me already,
I don’t want to wait.
Just tell me now,
Would you wait for me till dawn?
Or would you walk out
On me like a con?

Muskan Arora

 

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On the estuary

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At times like these, when the time flows like the great waters but my subconscious, like a wild weed is still half rooted with the rotten memories of the green leaves that ever adorned my frail tangles. I am caught at the estuary willing to leave, but the heart is delighted my stretching misery to my every fibre and not letting the roots of belief break through the ruthless chest of the dynamic river. I am stuck between ‘if it’s time’ or ‘the time has departed long time back.’ And withal the roots trust the selfish chest and aren’t letting me flow into the sea and through this painful estuary.

When I turn and glance upon the green days I am gifted with the ability to contemplate that my every word about the future fruit was certainly the indispensable truth. And the cause of my suffering is the unrevised decision of trusting the root rather than the faded leaf. My suffering will not be reciprocated. And the sea only nurtures it more to make my threads screech and cry. Yet mercy is far and nearer is death. The junction is long but the arm shall be stretched to the sea and here I am bound again at the estuary.

In this state when I lost the mouth but gained the eyes. It’s now that I see in the depth of the sea, there lie pebbles fighting with the rocks and I was just a wild weed, maybe just one of a many who couldn’t see and thought itself to be the source of life for some zeal of bubbles in the inanimate sea. The cerulean waters turned into smothering coals but I couldn’t judge as I was numb. Burnt me the water, such that no water could heal and all I need is the fire to take away the burn from me. And the I look back at my pity state with worry, and find the rooted threads trapping me back at the estuary. For a moment or two, I taste a drop of the sea and it seems like the river still burns through me. And now I am standing in still of the hurry but I don’t know if what I cravingly want is to leave the estuary?