Can I tell you a secret,
Even if my lips promised the head to keep mum?
Can I narrate you a story,
Even though I don’t want you to recognise the fiction reeking with reality?
Can I sing you a song,
Even if the music can’t hide the shenanigan beneath the happy lyrics?
Can I look into your eyes,
Even when mine would let you glance through the tears I have been holding back?
Can I say all the promises I make are mere words,
Even if I stay wide awake making the ends meet?
Can I walk you across that one dreaded street,
Even if it ends amidst the unkempt memory lane?
Can I show you all my fears,
Even if I won’t be able to mend you for eternity; followed by those beautiful years?
Can I paint you a picture,
Even if I wish to mask the vision blurry?
Can I write you a letter,
Even when the words fain to lead towards the true expression?
Can I leave a mark,
Even if you wish to flaunt you’ll embrace it hidden?
Can I say the rose on my cheek is newly bought,
Even when your presence does that to me?
Can- I – Can – I – Can; but-
Alas! I better keep that secret.
Trapped in a room
There wasn’t just a woman
A man too; In total there were people three.
Always aware of what had to be done
He didn’t realize what has he done
His feelings were undressing-
Him being callous and cruel to one
While love daunted the woman who was deemed the OTHER.
She now dressed herself in scars;
Scars she was too shy to reveal
Too dignified to compare herself with the OTHER
And a bit undignified to be the one left behind alone; but only for a while.
They stood amidst the boudoir
Surrounded with confrontation-
While running towards oblivion
A room no more a room
But a storm of emotions
Flooded with being understood and misunderstood.
She wanders around places in search of art Of knowledge, mystery and glimpses of the darker past She looks and looks- In the end every piece is a narration of some long afflicted rapport. Struck by realisations she looks in the mirror Her soul paving through her eyes- It tells her one final tiring conclusion; She can’t mend the broken And deem things to fall in places; because- Art is hideous and history is imperfect.
Encased within dusty jackets they behold a vision
Dirty and naked; chastised and a bit forbidden
Yet she opens them to hope- as a surmise
One by one she flip the pages-
Chapters and soon the lessons to be learnt
The stories they change one after the other.
She caress the fables and dreams the characters coming to life
The characters they come, live and reside-
It feels real! All of it! Every bit of it.
But why? Why are the goodbyes they bid so surreal?
Leaving her with imagination running wild,
Reasons that are too false to abide
And questions that have no answers-
At least not in her control.
Alas! It’s her faith and reality that she now deems as a lie.