My inspiration has left me,
my muse lies like dry bones without a
scrap of meat on them, in the corner of
a plate, decaying, disintegrating, deforming,
there was a time when I wept aloud
the lines I penned, when gripped by
paroxysms of emotion, I’d write thinking
of you, thinking of how sincerely and severely
I loved you, but how you split my heart in two,
pulling asunder ribcage, tearing the red.
Now, I’ve walked so many paths, wearily wandering,
I’ve seen things best unseen, heard things best unheard,
but your ‘faith’ in me kept me, rooted me
in the ground of belief.
But I’ve learned now that belief leaves keloids
which never heal, though they don’t hurt anymore,
reminders of trust in a well-crafted ruse you called love,
a public display of affection and adoration.
I thought I’d find my way back to you,
that villa with the red paper lanterns, you put up,
but I look now and see debris of what we’d hoped
You scream, ‘It’s your fault! Your lack of trust!’
But I’ve stopped letting you accuse me with your
command over my thoughts, treating everything like
a fucking joke. Somewhere, someplace there’s a
her who’s not a better version of you, but just
not you, and path leading to path will
help me find my way.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)