“What are you
What am I
What are we but a poem
Pieces of it left abound, here and there
Broken glasses, broken
Me, you, us
Waiting to be collected, connected
For it to whisper our cries silently
For it to sing our screams swiftly
A poem, that exists only in oblivious lanes
Of memories, dreams and nightmares
Where we are often left stranded
Awaiting salvation in its paragraphs
A poem which touches our scars
As if its words are to mend, melt us
And turn them into an abyss
Where me, you, each of us
Could find ourselves drowned
In the pool of blood, alphabets
A poem that is made of tears and laughter
Sadness and solitude covering its modesty
Angst and longing showing it the way
While wandering around
Falling and rising
It loses itself in pieces
Until there comes the sea
A reader, passerby
The moon or the night
A touch of whom is enough
To bring us a euphoric orgasm
Bound to be an end
Yet what else could we desire
What else did we desire?
A poem that is made up of
Me, you, us
A poem that dies in
Me, you, us
Leaving behind a trail
Of devastation, destruction
Of warmth and touch
That continues to remind
Me, you, us
Of something that we lost, forever, alas!”
Praveen Parasar
20/05/2017
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