Too fast a ride life is, to capture those stray tender notes,
that fall on your ears, eyes, nose or tongue, at times
the madness of sensory road rage, hits you and run
yet, you stop on your track, unawares, shed a tear.
While passing through a curved bridge you look down
at the flow that just usual, to naked eyes, who knows?
the current may hide secrets that won't meet the eyes
but float , when it reaches further down at the sea.
As I walk along this street, at mornings and evenings,
at times when my eyes fall on her familiar face
I see grief swarming like a colony of bees around
a queen , on her face, when I smile, she shows
no emotions, as if asking "Why should you be kind?"
Then one day, I see her, parking her car and line up
to get a bottle of whisky, as if it's urgent than ever
seeing me pass, she comes face to face .swarming
bees of grief for a while fly up, I see her ghostly grumpy face
and she pours her grief out as if the world knows it,
"I can't sit holed up day and night,memories are a cloud
but too heavy to carry around,I fight with them day and night"
She held my hands and the street vanished we were in a dark room
enveloped by a smoke of grief that chokes, whoever comes in,
"I found an escape route, at last,look at the balloons!"
She ran to untie a bunch of huge helium balloons,
and through a dark window she soared up and vanished.
I still see her car parked in utter squalor, at the square,
near the martyr's column, a metaphor of grief for the world to see
while passing, eyes go up to see a bunch of helium balloons descend,
with the skeleton of grief, of a woman lost in whisky haze.
