An old heartbreak

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I am back…
The conundrum lasts…
There is no answer.
Broken bones into casts.

Broken hearts scatter into dust.
The wind has no mercy.
It does what it must –
And I keep hearing it…

The worst is the limited joy,
It shines delightful and true
Then it succumbs, it breaks,
Fool me, nothing’s new.

Broken joy scatters as it will.
What can I wilfully save?
The wind is blowing cold,
Time never forgave.

What should I offer?
How do I find what I seek?
When can I hope?
Why is joy so delicate, so weak?

Knowledge of me shatters inward.
Am I but a mind not heart?
Was this sundering
A reason enough to start?

The moon dies again.
She cannot help tonight.
The wind is so damn strong,
There’s no will left to fight.

I hear the echoing voice,
To it my hope I forsake,
I am back,
Whispers an old heartbreak.

Forty

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Then as you turn a decade older,
The heart turns ten degrees colder;
The outward smile warps inward now,
The lines deepen the widened brow.
Age has taught much as it should,
Have you learnt as much as you could?
Are there newer hurts left to feel?
Are there newer hopes left to reveal?
Is there time left for parched lips to kiss?
Is there anything left for you to miss?
Do the rhymes fail and fall blank
Into talent that was never frank?
Smiles are ready. Regrets are uncertain.
Loss made sure all rules lay broken.
As you move from white and black to grey,
Fuck what you do and hear and say.
People are never who they appear,
In time you know, they will all disappear;
Hands that held yours were just hotter air –
Tragic; but belief taught you despair.
This air flows in and out much like breath,
It will flow on, perhaps until death.
Smile, though what you feared would surely hold,
Turn rusting iron into molten gold.
Wear the coronet and rise and shine.
You won you with the passage of time.

How many

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

How many heartbreaks are officially required
To crucify this heart on the pillars of the soul?
How many ineffective words of love need transpire
To appease vanity before it destroys it whole?

How many worthless tears must be pitifully shed
To wash dry memory’s sordid, miserable past;
And with the heart pronounce her equally dead
So neither does the other thankfully outlast?

How many rusted nails need be rammed into sinew,
For the pain to deaden, for the agony to end?
And must it be such a spectacle in public view,
With no respect left with either enemy or friend?