Behind these neat
Mask of mine,
It’s a mess of a
Different kind.
Veins and miles
Of veins all over,
Carrying bloods
Of all kind.
Where does it reach
I wonder,
That begins at the center
And prolongs all over.
Behind these neat
Mask of mine,
It’s a mess of a
Different kind.
Should I open them
What should happen?
The transient moment
when one conversation
is over, and I wait for the next,
searching for eyes that
might accidentally meet mine,
that transient moment
surrounded by faces –
smiling, welcoming,
I understand what alone means
for three seconds.
I go off to find the next.
They say shards are among
the things that cut
through your defenses
rending your castles futile.
Then why do we hold one
in our hands in our palms so unsteady?
Why are there shards all over,
some that cut through earthen lines,
some other through beating instruments?
We try to capture time
in vases, in glasses and bottles of wine
but it dries;
in prose scattered across words,
in notes and dimes,
but it flies.
We try to capture time,
in the ice cubes that melt
at the first touch of your palm,
in the sugar inside the
cheese cakes when we dine,
but it all ends up emptied
again and again.
We still try to capture time
in games of charades and
questions we’d never ask anyone,
in one word texts
nobody really understands;
in fears we try to drown
by denying the world made
by our very hands.
We try to capture time.
