Brave and foolish youth,
The sun-baked verdance of
curiosity,
The moth, the flame, the
burning,
The rain of passion,
A riotous blizzard of
emotions,
But the storms die,
The clouds get empty,
The skies clear,
Leaving a brief rainbow
behind.
Love is a little arc,
a tiny rainbow,
It’s drawn between two points:
joy and ecstasy at one;
A little sad smile
that briefly dispelled the
dark
like a lamp does with
enlightening hark,
Then it vanished,
But in that brief light,
I read the book of pain in
her eyes
written in a strange
language.
It was just that little
smile
that connected him with
the stranger,
There wasn’t anything to
say,
It wasn’t required in
fact.
It was the time to
unlock the fears lodged in
my guts,
and get in step with the
chaos of life;
to take slander, gossip
and mockery
as relevant and lofty as the
scriptures.
It was the time to
take it as success to be heaved
and propelled by the
current of pain.
It was the time to
take chipped, chaffed,
moth-eaten humanity
as the post-modern
goddess,
and worship her
while wearing clean clothes
outside
and a filthy mind and heart
inside.
It was the time to
be like everyone around,
And be a hunting hound
devouring the rabbits soft
and stay in the highest loft.
It was the time to
keep cupping the ears
to avoid any chance
pick-up of
the upbeat melody of life,
And get used to the
strife.
Very rarely and very few
get finally really
settled,
We are forever migrating,
We are a jumpy species,
Never on solid earth,
It seems the only inheritable
things are
pain, sorrow and
suffering,
But joy and happiness
we have to create in this
very life,
Nurture as a dream, a
destination
as we move on the
default mode of misery.
A hardness building up
in the soft, mushy zone
that enveloped us,
And the night even though
aglow with fireflies
lost its charm
like candles going off
when hit by
a howling blizzard.
She was silent outside
but screaming inside,
Crispy above
but pain-roasted below,
Flitting, flirting and
dancing on surface,
but weary and bedraggled
inside,
There we were
forcing ourselves to
assume that
things were normal, even
though
there were many proofs to
the contrary.
There we were
pushing each other
into the pools of pain,
Earlier it was a
joyous jaunt in the rain,
A fragile world we set up
around ourselves with our
dreams,
destinations, envy, hope
and fears,
Then we create a shell of
hate
to keep the pearl of love
in it,
It glitters,
But it isn’t a love-gem,
It’s our hate crystallized
for self-deception.
Love comes with the
inclusion of
more and more around you
into your care,
And in this fertile soil
blooms a flower,--
Mother earth says:
O ye children, give me all
your blood,
gore, filth, garbage,
poison, chemicals,
I’d still give you
flowers, trees, pastures.
A mother can’t stop
giving,
She has to keep giving,
Till her last breath,
Till she perishes.
When the last flower on
earth will die
along with the mother’s
last breath’s sigh,
Her children would then
be replaced by a new
species,--
the humanoid machines
that’ll infest her rotten
corpse,
It’ll be a global grave
swarming with metallic
maggots.
