Pocket Mirror

 

    It's a serene evening in Gujarat.

    Last time you visited, it was the 

    Numbness of your heart that

    Held you back, from everything.

    Now, it's the turbulent waves

    Of overwhelming emotions

    That attack you, punching 

    The face of your heart with a 

    Long blow, stooping it to

    The roughness of the bare ground.

    The bare ground of reality.

    This anxiety that pricks the

    Arteries and veins and stops

    The red blood from seeping 

    In and out, this anxiety that 

    Is killing you in shreds.

    This anxiety that's taking 

    Away any urge to eat or drink,

    Leaving you cold before a 

    Hot plate of chicken legs.

    Everything is serene,

    Except your tormented pocket -

    Mirror, your heart, that you carry 

    Everywhere, often like a burden.

    It's been days since the flames 

    Began to rise, eating away 

    Your heart in parts, leaving 

    Blood red ashes of a stone

    Cold reality, that'd never succumb.

    Only if you could express this anguish

    In words or bards to someone!

    We are a messed up generation

    Folks forced to tirelessly keep 

    Everything that burns within

    To themselves, like burned 

    Carcasses still smudged with

    Short breaths of dying life.

    You know not what to feel,

    Agony or joy, dread or hope.

    You know not whether to fly or

    To flee, to dream or to wake.

    Sleeping feels like a refuge,

    Short intervals of death that

    Makes you forget the duel.

    You sit numb and cold, though

    Raging emotions storm over you.

    Hours pass, and plans go

    Unfulfilled. You run to the white-

    Tiled terrace and sink down

    In a corner, hoping it to swallow 

    Your tremors, but it doesn't.

    Then you hear doors banging

    From below, your mother's

    Endless complains, her little

    Yet undone dreams languishing

    Like broken kites in thin air.

    Due to the incomprehensible

    Indolence that has gripped her

    Double faced daughter, who 

    Fails to add colours to her wings

    Wings, which are already in shreds.

    She walks away in rage, to the garden.

    You still sit where you are, tears

    Rolling down with hesitancy

    In clusters, like those wingless 

    Words you know not how to

    Say out loud to the world.

    And the setting sun laughs at

    The dumb corpse sitting in the

    Corner beside the white blooms

    Shredding away its petals 

    Like a hibiscus that hides 

    Itself in shame, for it yet

    Knows not what it should 

    Do to convince the world

    That it's not dumb and ugly

    For, it believes it to be so.

    The hibiscus hangs in that

    Dreaming stance, crushed,

    Turning its fatigued face

    Every now and then, to the

    Black holes of stone-cold reality.

    - Vinaya Mary

      07.05.23