There is something about worn-out places that fascinate me. The exhausted paint coatings releasing itself from the grasp of the wall, exposing the underlying bricks from which they were once built, long ago. They are no longer able to contain each other. I wonder who wins here. The paint, avowed to protect the wall, now unearthing freedom? The wall, who can now be its true self? Or both, for breaking free from the vile dominance of attachment?
Monday, 8 February 2016
Who are you?
Nodding head in
exasperation
Fire in belly
And fumes in ears
Walking on the
forlorn street
A touch of zephyr
You compose the heat
Who are you?
The intelligence that
wanders?
A form that breathes?
Thoughts in your
head?
Or the eye that sees?
The lone light died
abrupt
Abandoned you.
Blinded.
Yet, the world you
hear
Existence depended on
the ear
Unaware of where
Bounded swiftly by
strange silence
Severed from the
world
Existence depended on
limbs
Blinded, deafened and
defeated
Fatigue, arduous to
gauge
Worn-out limbs give
away
Existence depended on
something strange
In the cosmic expanse
of universe
You and I are a
speckle of dust
Yet, the Universe we
are
Alas! Crafted of love
and lust
Love for the material
Lust for the same
None fathom that their
body don’t have a place
Let alone their name
A million times our
name said
A hundred times God summons
to say his’
‘Speak of me under
your breath’
We, a thousand times forget
this
Being human.
On clothes, it only lingers
Clichéd.
‘Being Humble’ differs only by three letters
Born as little bodies,
the same;
Churning out thoughts
and memories
Energies beyond elucidation
Experiences beyond
dreams
You and I wrangle by mere
thoughts
That sashay and glide
Countless encounters adding
them up
And them making up
the mind
Who you are is who I
am
Galaxies in your eyes, just as mine
Body, you see in
front of you
Adorned.
Soul, nothing but a crumb
of the universe
Of the same soul. Of
God.
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