~ all it took was your smile to entrap me, and I refuse to escape! ~
Date written: 09/25/2021
The key hole
Many appearances
in this holiday season
seem as locked doors..
War zones we view
wondering what string
of complexities led to
the soldier standing
in a protective stance..
Homeless people with
cardboard signs
withstand cold wind
stating their ensnarement
and wish to belong..
Immigrants end their
long journeys in
detention..looking
outward to that which
appears free beyond..
Many outward paths
seem impeded by
an ancient lock
guarding a hole
without a key..
We apparently wait
for a single key
filling many holes
with recognized light...
The others turn to wallpaper,
an amalgamation of colours,
reds run into blues run into greens.
A palate of insignificance
submerged behind our corneas,
may as well be grey.
Nascent in our welfare womb,
sharing oxygen: I breathe in, you breathe out.
The curves of your fingertips
tease my acrylic French tips.
Then I turn to wallpaper.
Plunge a clenched fist through my chest, and
pluck at the strings that engage in each glower.
Graffiti to the grave.
Your tongue-tied texts and
speechless songs
compile that composition.
Phone calls squeezed into
itchy interludes,
last drops of water from a sponge.
Ensnarement.
No release from our declining rapport,
evaporating as those drops from the sponge.
I feel wrung out and parched,
thirsty for what once
drowned me in delight
And now you turn to wallpaper, and I
make an ornament out of my
damaged goods.
Slicing thoughts, destiny
timeness of present, trying to watch
inside. The inverted question. Mask
removed.
Your own progeny spying on you,
disowning the moon bears. Beyond
truth was a huge wall. Ensnarement.
Whispers silenced.
A vast void. Interpretation of disguised
Voilence. Hostilities in elliptic orbit. Moon
slaughtered. Death was quick, spurting
the blood. Smearing the intelligence.
Paper weight. Surface tension. Shrinking
supreme. Parthenogenesis. Breaking
the square. Ending of scrolls. Cosmic
disorder. What brains were thinking?
Long speeches. Verbatim fuel. Nubile
bombers. Circus of mediocre legends.
Failed epidurals. History is squinting.
Select values are outworn. I am watching
a very red sunset.
SATISH VERMA