Metamorphosis

I was this person sculpted,
Not by your words,
Not by your deeds,
None of these was I sure of.
I was sculpted,
By your expectations,
Never pronounced,
Always perceived;
By your love,
Never perceived,
Always imagined.

I was this person,
Whom you wanted me to be;
The rest of me,
Decimated in your presence.

As you were unveiled,
I was recast.
The person I knew as you,
Was on the verge,
Of being replaced,
Of being buried,
By the person you are.
The unrest,
The doubts,
The worries,
The qualms,
Dissolved as I heard your voice,
The voice of the renewed 'you',
The voice that shall renew me.

One answer

That tiny figure,
With her tiny fingers,
Resting on her milk teeth,
Those teeth separated by intruding brown lines,
Another hand clutching her clothes,
Her clothes which told me tales,
Tales of her play,
Tales of her scuffles with her playmates,
That shrivelled hair,
That never had the lustre mine has,
Yesterday's milk that dried on her chin,
Leaving the shape of a yet undiscovered country,
That layer of fine dust,
That was her makeshift talcum,
The insecurity that she seemed to exude,
As she stared at me through those large inquisitive eyes,
Unmindful of her sister, her miniature,
Whose hands were evidently awaiting a coin from me.
Do I call it luck,
Do I call it destiny,
Do I call it facticity,
That she happened to be the one she is,
And I the one I am?
There's just one answer,
An undeniable one.
The greed of the avaricious few.

When it died

There was a fear,
Fear that never showed,
Fear that manipulated my actions,
Fear that animated my emotions,
Fear that comforted me,
Fear that flourished on hope,
Hope that my fears wouldn't come true,
A cruel cycle that wouldn't spare me.

There was a fear,
Fear that blurred boundaries,
Boundaries between pleasure and pain,
Between the right and the wrong,
Fear that withdrew me,
Into a world of its own.
Fear that concealed the truth,
The lies, the doubts, the joy,
Fear that impersonated,
That spineless creature called me.

The fear of your walking away,
Your footsteps resounding brutally,
Killing the fear -my sole clandestine ally.

The fear died,
When you walked away.
What died in me,
I will never know.
There is a fear,
Of your breathing life into what just died. 

You could have been

You could have been,
The cliche that I blab,
The mirror that stalks me,
The idiocy I'd have gladly suffered,
The brilliance I'd have eternally admired,
The still small voice that peals in my mind,
The smile permanently planted on my face,
The clarity that is conspicuous by its absence now.

You could have been,
The trimness that I so delight in,
The chaos that amenably intrudes,
The serenity in a distant gaze,
Those dreams I rummage through,
The riddle I'd have let you be,
The concealed joy in my bouncy gait,
The interludes of gloom that are indispensable.

You could have been,
A hundred things,
Named and unnamed,
A hundred things,
I'd have wanted you to be,
A hundred things,
You could have chose to be.
The only thing you chose to be,
Is the pain you are.
The only thing I let you be,
Is the pain you are.
And pray don't ask me,
WHY.

SUNdays

This Sunday,
My fingers are immobile,
My limbs are heavy,
My torso is pulled down by my limbs,
My neck is infirm,
And in the head that overlies this neck,
Dumbness prevails.

Lumbering with dumbness,
Dumb with redundancy,
Redundant with emotions,
Emotional without reason,
And there the stream ends,
The stream of my scourge,
The scourge yet unnamed.

Sundays are endless,
So are memories-
That capsize my actions today,
Memories of Sundays,
Of endless laughter,
Of inexhaustible cuddles,
Of the comfort of idleness,
Of protracted play,
Of industrious revisions,
For senseless tests.

Memories of Sundays,
Of long walks,
Of enchanting dinners,
Of interminable phone calls,
And of people,
Who enlivened my Sundays

Today is one,
A Sunday of memories,
Of those on the brink of forgetting those Sundays,
And memories of those ,
Who by virtue of magnanimity or regard,
Or memories,
Created another memory today.

That air

I live,
Breathing this air,
The air that my skin approves of,
The air that my senses collude with,
The air that tranquilises my mind,
The air that your voice enlivens,
The air that is charged by your mere presence,
The air that carries your characteristic odour,
The air that diffuses your image,
The air that ferries our thoughts,
The air that our cords mould into cryptic words,
The air that welds us together,
The air that our lungs share,
The air we are unaware of,
The air called intimacy.

Acceptance

Those were just random noises,
Unorchestrated beats,
Unintelligible chords,
Misplaced emotions,
That strained my brain,
It was nothing I would call music.
My ears were permissive,
My brain tolerant,
For a while,
For as long as it took,
For the noises to become sounds,
For the beats to become rhythm,
For the chords to  melodise,
For the music to take shape,
The shape called 'you'.


Did the music grow on me,
Or was it mere habituation,
That I heard what I heard,
And visualised what I did visualise?
Reasons don't matter,
As long as the music's being played.