Paced

Taking steps were so difficult
In those days… And now…
Running sounds more apt.

Hope from the grabbed churn,
Blank over the dreams overrun;
Ruined remnants of the scholarly vices,
Blind hearty matters and dreadful disguises.

Gloom over the severed bonds,
Celebration of those lost seconds;
Fight over someone else’s wealth
Careless about the precious health.

Bucks that cling to mind no more,
Blocks that float but reach no shore;
Windows open to the polluted skies,
Suffocated with innumerable lies.

Hurrying to step out of this mournful hell;
Ended up holding, in dark, the demon’s tail.

Life has its own tryst with self…
Not being sure if it is…
Pissed off or paced up.

© Amaresh Swain

Being Myself!

Who cast an imprecation at me,

The time changed at the hit of the night;

So meretricious it appeared,

I followed it sans questions;

And when I found

The right, The Wrong and then some

I got that I was tired

And not right.

I was tired of being myself

With lots of possibilities and confusions:

The dreams and the aims,

The feet and the steps,

So not-in-accord.

So helpless like a ten cross ten matrix,

Attenuated with time gradually,

It seems like a self claimed portrait

Of hopelessness

When I come across the mirror.

Then it happens,

Someone silently approaches

Out of the dark;

Want to hold my hand and walk,

Till sunrise,

And leave me refreshed

Not tired, not dejected.

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