We are imprisoned
and enchained in our own freedoms,
Despite their appearance to bestow freedom,
that which we
take to be the proofs of freedom
are in fact the bars and barbed fences,
These stop us from reaching beyond
what we have so far considered
to be the pinnacle of freedoms.
Sometimes even forgiveness
falls short of
accepting the reality,
Sometimes even love
falls short of
accepting the truth,
Sometimes even kindness
falls short of
looking over the hurt,
Sometimes even gratitude
falls short of
accepting the joy of what we have.
We are after all mere shadows
chasing the form that we dream about.
A see-saw of emotions
ripping through wooden fibers,
Cutting the dead wood of memories
in the heart to make
wooden dolls, statues, mannequins,
That’s how most of us are:
much less alive than trees and flowers.
Customized by conventions;
wind-tangled by circumstances;
breeze-tousled by situations;
pain and suffering sculpting our destinies,
We allow ourselves to be molded
by the forces of atrophy
manifesting in our thoughts,
While the trees and even animals
seem to absorb more automatic order
into their existence,
They do it just by
allowing the open forces of nature
to shape them in harmony with eternal laws,
While we filter too much negatives and chaos
using our brainy check-dam effort
and channelize the intellectual sludge
for war, violence and strife.
The tattoo maker
working with quiet persistence,
Tattooed a label on the heart,
which turned a quagmire,
a trapping swamp.
Life then became a mere
undoing operation managed by death
to relieve the struggler of his pain
and carry him home
as a very rich man,
who returns with all treasures
unspent during the journey.
He died very rich,
For he still possessed
all that he was born with,
He now lay like a foolish farmer
who kept all his seeds
safely hidden in his barn,
Never took them to the fields,
Never opened them to the sun’s smile,
In musty darkness they rot now,
Life seeped out,
Hopes and possibilities bleached,
And gloom settles on the corpse
like crows crunching a dry carrion.
It was a life unspent,
Just like a tiny rodent
merely crawled on a plywood sheet,
while wasted were the seeds
that would’ve made him an elephant
joyfully stomping on solid earth.
Mud-caked with dark memories,
Ashen and terrified,
The serpent of shame
slithering over his heart,
Raking the dead leaves of autumn
for a rustle or murmur of life,--
the leaves that had once a lively luxuriance,
Alas, the spring was wasted,
The bus was missed,
Now the sulking journeyman
looking for some traces of life in a grave.
The awkward familiarity of love
tugging at your bruised self
with delicate deference,
Ripe, tender, luscious love
pouring its spicy excitement
into the bland, spoiled dish
prepared with the recipe of the broken heart,
The fresh ingredients of new love
trying to undo its own raspy touch
clawed on the heart in its previous version;
trying to wipe the melancholy
carved on the heart;
trying to put light in the eyes
where its last version settled deep sorrows;
trying to put balm on the bleeding wounds
as the prongs of past go dredging
the memories of the old version.
When was the hardware (body) sensible?
Especially when love (software)
has this terrible sense for updation!
She burrowing a hole into his heart,
Drilling through various crusty layers of
anger, fear, guilt, insecurity and shame,
Diligently boring to reach the core,
the chamber of love
lying buried under uncouth layers.
The lovely well digger,
Soaked with sweating love,
Working to reach the sap of love,--
the nectar of springs.
A hopeful journeywoman
seeking an oasis in the desert,
To make him feel
that he has love at his core,
not hate and animosity.
