I'm a lost passenger, on an uncharted voyage; constantly peering into maps and compasses for the right path, that leads to purpose, and salvation, but the road is always wreathed in murky mist; the trail disappears, like waves washing away sandcastles on an isolated beach; when that happens, I feel lost, within too. A sensation inside, that every moment is the beginning or the end, is everlasting and all that I could feel. I have pockets that reek of dead petals of cherry blossoms, from a forgotten spring; I wonder if I'd ever have the courage to let them away, so that they flow down to a graveyard and settle on someone's grave. Like most of the things in this realm are out of place, they are too and it could matter less, because they've found hearth and home in these openings of my denims, but won't they yet swift freely if exposed? Dead but alive, like schrödinger's cat. I wander in this emptiness now and then, aware of every nook and cranny that it could take me, but it persists. All my desires are mirages, the happiness they hold melts, like ice vanishes when placed in one's hands; as soon as I have them I realise the chicanery done; I am trapped inside this vessel, and someone has latched the doors and thrown the key deep into a chasm; escape, escape, escape, but to where?
I'm a vagrant, and I never had a home, but am I in pursuit of one? The answer would always be negative, because perhaps, I ne'er was looking for it. This eternal search, and the picturesque scape faraway, but what for?
If doom is beckoned, I urge to spectate it bare and raw, hurling its tyranny above all, because I'm curious about merely one inspection:
You sweep your guilt in the dark corners of your isolated room, in a faint hope to form it to dust But alas, your heart can't..... It can't forget the way she used to carry - a lucid dew drop sitting on the edge of leaf, filming the sunrise with songs of the passerines in background, and a soothing breeze to sway it to it's dreams - in her heart, only to fill your dark abode with it's poetic attire
Yet your native heart mistook her poetry with petty prose, scrapped her art with your vile eyes, and left her in a naked turmoil
And now the guilt of that atrocity keeps on knocking the coffin of your sublime mind And on nights like this, you can't help but fall deep in your restless sleep