through the disgruntled night winds, those disturbed and weary kinds,
i was born out of ashes, out of endless clashes,
of supper and board, tied inside those needless chords,
i was waiting, the chamber of my heart straining,
straining to hear that knock, to break through the ticking clock,
i heard a murmur, a bleak voice tearing through the chamber,
alas, that hope, clearing through that fog,
i heard the knock again, was it another stain?
of those false promises, of red veils and bangles?
wait! i hear it again! deafening the soul wanting to be sane,
the thundering silk purple curtain, those weary white ghosts lurking,
a nod, a knock or was it the ticking clock?
i camouflage my fear, put up a face which could bear,
those painted smiles, that first touch which was sly,
my heart fluttered, but that soul disgruntled and cluttered,
pulled it down to the ground, was i unacceptable to the crowd?
those endless struggles, of survival and death,
trading flesh, between those depressed distressed sheets,
meet a new silhouette, a new soul.
distressed but in vain, my dreams are only plain,
of food and smile, not intoxication or lies,
the chamber lies away, buried deep where it stays,
gets rattled only those nights, of amours and knights,
steering into the deepest corners, make believe stories; i am the mourner.
maybe i demand a little more, this time from all this a cure,
a lucid answer, an intelligible life,
he is vanilla, enamoring, glowing in the murky life,
while he doesn’t rattle, but does it truly matter?
victim i am of my own choices, life is so much more and of silent poises,
i hand over myself, my destiny, to that path uncrossed and feared by many,
my fete is a sum of my own prime.
Tanushree Srivastava 