Amnesia

In a world where Amnesia is
the commonest disease,
I am vulnerable too.

I might forget your name,
I might detach myself
from your memories.
But I know, howsoever,
badly I contract the disease,
you shall linger in my mind
like mist.

Blurred,disarrayed and vague
but still there...

Mist that shall never fleet.

Feed me your venom

Serve me a saucerful of secrets,
a platter of venomous lies...
But, serve it with your hands,
I promise, I shall eat with élan....

Distances that grow

Some distances not only grow wide,

they deepen too,

forming gorges…

steep and impenetrable

Damned insects...

You know why, insects gather around a little source of light?
It is because, a ray of hope, they want to stick to, in their otherwise dark lives.

Hurt me, if you will . I know, I shall be alright

Do you derive a sadistic pleasure
when you try to
excruciate me with your
harshest words?

Have you forgotten that
pelting stones at water
does not make any difference
even if you hurl those stones
with all your might?

A ripple , they create...
a little transient ripple
and then the stone
sinks, vanishes
in the Water's bosom...

"The Wall"... Roger Waters , I owe this title to you

The wind that Bob Dylan talked about in his song was rather fictitious... His wind blew with answers to all questions possible...
The wind that blows in my little space is rather irksome...It only asks disturbing questions let alone answering them...

Every morning when I read the newspaper, I wonder "Is it the same world that I am supposed to be a part of? If yes, then how is it possible that the world that revolves around me is utterly banal while the one that the newspaper portrays is ever changing and ever new?"

I feel as if I have been shunned from "activity", from "motion". I am exiled. The world believes I have a communicable disease and it has sent me in a  quarantine thus abandoning me to deal with my ailments alone. I am sequestered by an invisible wall, in a tunnel and I have a territory to tro-fro about... A very small territory. 
The territory resembles the world that I was born in but its artificial. Artificial things are never real, no?
There are stark differences. Like for example, the trees that grow in my territory. The poor ones are green with envy. They envy their likes that grow on the other side of the wall. They are dismayed. They cry their hearts out and have confided in me that given a chance they would uproot themselves, grow limbs and run away from the sinister soil,that  they are rooted to... I pity their wishes. They can never be granted.

The sky overhead... Oh, its relentlessly blazing... burning the "spirit" to live.. Its blue like the sky on the other side of the wall but its inhuman... Its engulfed in a torpor.

I never hear the birds chirping. Yes, I have heard the deafening honking of the vehicles that rattle all over like snakes. Unlike the world on the other side of the wall where dogs bark, here people yap like rabid dogs...the dogs are mute with that helpless look in their eyes. Poor pups!

Everything is caged, motionless and banal. I was healthy in the beginning and now that I have been forced to live like this, I have contracted the disease. I tried to fight it but the disease was too smart to find that one chink in my immune system. It settled on me, firmed its grip and took the mind under its control...

Shall I be ever acquitted from this sentence? Or is it a Life sentence? Please vindicate me, I am innocent...

Stay dormant for a while , Painter!

Don’t picture me any more
in your poesies.

I see a general sense of
monotony creeping in
your writes.
The same visage
drawn over and over again,
to an extent that now my face
looks lackluster.

How you beautify me with the
embellishments of your words!
Where is the soul that I had
fallen in love with?
Its just flesh and bones.

The more you draw me,
the more haggard I become,
the more arid does your painting
turn into...
Dull and bland!

Why are the colors subdued,
where is your artistic panache,
those careless yet perfect
brush strokes?

Why do you have to wring out
colors from your paint brush?
Trust your instincts,
they shall flow on their own.

Dip the brush in
the untainted color
of your pure love.
Shades shall drip like honey,
and you shall breathe life
into me.