A year
landed flat,
The
residual ebullience flattened
As the
rawness and dumbness conflated
Into an
abyssal dungeon of darkness
Like how
everything began
By groping
into calling darkness.
The
minimum spark, then,
The
beguiling tail of flight,
Now
smirks, sneers,
Savoring
the euphoric betrayal
Inflicted,
yet, on a modest heart
Not meant
for such cyclic movements.
‘You
aren’t the one for such’,
The
axiomatic voice deafening now
For its
precision at the bruised point;
Presumptuous
yet sensible so far
As long as
it falters further along
Self-redemption
expedient yet pathetic.
A year
landed flat,
The
self-discovery yet unconvincing—
The crazed
one yet readies for further,
But, no,
fed up! Now the haunting portal,
Yet
another romanticism, a dreamy land,
Could
there be such golden gate?
Could
there be such velocity—
The flight
of transportation
At the
flick of the free-will,
Now
merging into schizophrenic frenzy
As serious
as the looming queasiness—
Nothing I
own, nor do I belong to this vibrancy.
If landed,
masochism should
Like the
intoxicated reverie!
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