Like the tiniest of pebbles,
ignored by the cool fingers of the laughing brook.

Like the obscure cave...
So inaccessible that it never sees the light of day.

Like the move easily dismissed.
When the queen overshadowed the rook.

Like the kite that spiralled downward.
When its string snapped and wind refused to play.

Like the pothole that tripped,
simply because indifferent feet would only overlook.

Like an idea that never sees fruition,
when open minds are scarce and clenched fists scream nay.

Like hidden reasons that remains unseen.
When we judge by the actions we conveniently mistook.

Like consequential words whispered under my breath.
They bear much weight...
But I'm too afraid to say.

November days sees me pummelled,
bashed and clubbed to a pulp.
Buried then exhumed...
Skin and bones,
hair and scalp.

Dusks watch me stretch,
warp and break.
Bitten, chewed and spat out.
So that I could come together...
So I could nurse
the same old doubt.

Nights abrade,
as they span for hours.
They sap, they wear.
They mock and they jeer.
There is bittersweetness in the solitude
where coherence of mind
is scarce and rare.

Dawns greet with tiptoeing feet.
Cradle my body where it had lain.
They resuscitate me. Fill me up.
They ward off nightly deaths
so I am reborn,
again and again...


Into
November.
.

This anger...

Feels like a ball of uncontrollable energy that spins treacherously in the pit of my stomach.

It is unbound and reaches out forcefully in every axis. It is self-sustaining. And it consumes...
All of me...

It's doesn't want to be displaced, or swept under the rug for the umpteenth time. It doesn't want to be cajoled or calmed. It doesn't want to be coaxed into thinking that it does not need to rear its ugly head because I believe I have a handle on things; which I clearly do not.

It knows me too well and will not take it lying down.

It wants acknowledgement and it wants to speak.

It wants to speak in a low guttural voice for the sheer purpose of intimidation.
It wants grow in figurative size to assert its validation.
It wants to absorb every form of negativity and use it to fuel the fight.
It wants to take the faintest pin-***** or papercut to the most painful stab in the heart and use them...
Harness them and then...
Explode in a hundred-mile radius.

This anger is real...
And it has had enough of sitting on the bench.
Now it wants a piece of the action...

And this time I let it.

We double over...
Curse of the weighty tombstone
tolling upon our backs.

We mull over...
If the string was pulled too taut;
If it deserved more slack.

We pretend to get over...
While we go to sleep
on a bed of scattered tacks.

Tomorrow will see us
keeling over...
Unfound...
Undiscovered...
Hidden along uncharted tracks.

.
They all tell the same story.
Each in their very own way.

How they share the same canvas,
yet revel the distance between.
At times twinkle in unison -
their secret code.
Wilfully scattered
across the universe.

The stars;
They’d still tell the same,
old story,
Even though,
the words would’ve changed.
They’d hum the same tune…
To what ears that still listen.

But stubborn I am,
as my heart
would whisper -
loudly into the quiet.
As if to slake the thirst
and quell the fires…
The remains of the love…
Of ages come.

.

As sure as the night
into day will turn,

the soul would clutch
at the scars we still earn...

And the skin would miss
just as the heart would burn.

.
So enamoured
by the moon
was he...

That he had
disowned the sun

and
forgotten the stars.

.

Weakened knees
on firm, hard ground.

Futile footfalls
on sinking sand.

Dazed and confused
by the sights and sounds.

Losing balance
in familiar lands.