GREY IMAGE OF BLUE CLOUD- II

Beyond the barricaded white,
Distinguishing the system from the surrounding,
Is a view conceivable to every eye that is not blind,
Every pupil that opens and every iris that has colour.
Through the white bars,
I see an image that has always failed to
Put a cessation to amazement and surprise.

Across the rigid, white panes is
An image which is palpable, real.
An image that has spoken to me always.
In this dread of trying to
Conjure up beautiful verses and
Phrases to describe the scene
That these view-perceiving set has always encountered,
Is a trial to make things work out in the end.
There is an attempt to keep the decadent alive,
In the image I still look at.
In the midst of wanting to explode and
Show the viewer the sounds and
Make them listen to the views,
I paint a picture.
I paint a picture for you
To see how the conciliatory notes and the Magnanimous words that transpired between us,
Have only decimated the soul, right at the core.
As I look at this image, in front of my bare eyes:
Real, palpable and succinct,
There's a deference I show to you.

I see it slowly fade and immerse
In the backdrop of its being.
Beyond the white bars,
Deluged with emotions and feelings that pierce this soul,
I finally rest my verse, "Grey Image of Blue Cloud."

Comments

Fag.

-Aakriti Thatal Lighting Her first cigarette, Inhaling the smoke, the heat and the pang: She let her colours show And Her wings out. She shone. Brighter than the flame igniting her fag, did she shine. The flakes fluttering in the void, glowed'. Orange. Vibrant. She was Happy. The other smiled there, the passive smoker. Smiled. Smiling. Smile. Smile? The cigarette was Blithe. Life. She lived One. With cigarettes taking her breath little-by-little, did she live. She lived Once. Taking in the last puff, She smiled, hollow. Pain. End. Life. Once. One. Cigarettes. Her inhaler. Little did it take for the bright flakes fluttering, turn Gray. A very short while. Ash. They were Happy for a very short while.

Power

-AAKRITI THATAL. I look at myself, sometimes; Superficially. The skin- Dark. Gloomy. I go deeper. Not skin-deep. Deeper beneath. Choking, struggling to break free from A life that is only a Lie. A Lie- Cold and Intolerable. With cavernous darkness emanating From the grotto of 'the core'- The Heart. A Lie, I am unaware of. Crawling and flowing through every vein in my body; A piece of me, ephemeral. My eyes are dark and criminal. So many things seen but not shown. 'Views', unfathomable, Actions, unpleasant to the soul. These eyes have seen the others Shine and also cry; These eyes have lived long enough to 'just die'. Trepidant lips, trying to utter words to expedite emotions; Trying to jerk up a lip into a word. Struggling the best to make my feelings and thoughts more accentuated. These lips have a multitude of tales to tell. I WISH I HAD THE POWER. I WISH PEOPLE KNEW. I WISH

I used to draw flowers when strong desires in me sprang, To maneuver things to have my way. I coddled those desires in me for they were almost definite and such promise kept me impelled. They were scattered here, and blotched there, However, they were outward. Those evocative desires punctured every stub of confusion and left me aching for more display, more flowers. Those plump, pretty flowers would pucker publicly and throb with clear pulse, Almost loud, almost definite, almost tangible. The flowers withered. They wilted, uncared for. They wilted upon strenous trials of colouring them with self-indulgence, And not letting them breathe at their pace. / Today, a wall exists where used to be flowers; my hands no longer draw them. In trying to paint geometric, precise, absolute figures; the imperfect, raw, sincere flowers sagged. My hands are now entrapped, not engrossed. I view the outcome from this distance and refuse to appreciate the brick wall, but cannot appreciate the f

An Introspection

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