Somewhere there, lies a cottage nestled in a reverie
I’ll never know – enveloped in grey, the beige, the
reds and greens embodying a finally satisfied need
for solitude,
somewhere else, lies a simulacrum of what happened,
hurt stretched out, or a smile magnified, forcing, piercing,
scratching its way towards
now, where excruciating change happens –
the rusty wheels slowly turning, their bone-crushing sound
agonizing, and yet liberating me of constraints,
where love finds freedom, which is a selfless giving
instead of a selfish imbibing – never expecting her to play
a part on my stage,
where beauty and hope stand strong under the foot
of uncertainty, and a surreal trance stays, forging
my tragic optimism in the fires of ardor,
where being is becoming, where free will is fate,
where here stays, where always means something
more than something said, where words meet
this page and reflect my life.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

12 responses

      • We could be next door neighbours – but I’m restricting your visitations to just an edifying 2 hours per week. As long as I can’t see YOUR cottage over the fence.

      • I drink Indian Wine sometimes, and I would recommend not trying it. A few sips and you’ll not only taste the sediment. You’ll feel it in the back of your mind. And don’t get me started on Old Monk and MC whiskey. The latter will leave you with brain damage.

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