Written in 2018 – Page 4 – Hearts Still Care

Due

Published on September 14, 2018April 20, 2019 by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The seasons have left,
there are none for my future.
My measure stands bereft,
old wounds know no suture.

The leaves have crumbled
into a crypt filled with dust,
all of love lies jumbled
with loss, lies and lust.

It’s a mire of confusion.
What has life led me to?
It all seems like an illusion.
Who am I? Who are you?

The wind is still, the heat is here,
Hands take what they can.
I am left with what I think is fear
And no real measure of man.

My dogs die, like the seasons do,
Though I enjoy each most.
All that seems to remain true
Are the illnesses I guiltily host.

Regrets I have borrowed,
When I prided myself on having none.
And everything I followed,
Seems to in infinite circles run.

The sun now holds one promise,
maybe I yearn for him to be true:
somewhere, I will find my share of bliss,
sometime, I will be given my due.

Trojan

Published on August 20, 2018August 20, 2018 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

It’s all a matter of time:
Love evolves into honesty
And the tube light glare
Rips through at some point.
The thing that was once hidden,
Under the guise of empathy,
Lies naked for all to see,

Like a broken body after rape,
Open to the lenses of posterity
And a boggling public
That cranes to see which part
Was most abused.
The need to hide exists no more.
Justice demands sight and hearing.
A lynching is required.

Love is stronger than romance
And it can withstand a slap,
Or two.

Compromise is a grey area.

Love was not the same,
Either for Helen or Mumtaz –
Tom had jumped on a sofa
And after begetting children
Of blood, they say,
It all ended amicably.
I mean, the jumping ended.

I think myself grand enough
To think mine will last.
I shall let the Trojans in though;
Because I love horses.
(That is a different kind of love.)

slammed doors

Published on August 6, 2018August 6, 2018 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

His passing was sudden
Like the slap when I wouldn’t serve him his food.
There was one last surge of emotion,
Due,
As I applied ghee on his face
So the fire would be kind.
I never knew a father;
But my father,
He knew me,
He said,
He knew I was “like that” since I was two.
And that was enough for him to know of me.
The bullying,
The browbeating,
The beating,
The battery of those slammed doors
Hailing his entry or exit
Out of and in to my life.