The days pass.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The days pass like friends who cared in passing.

The nights grow shorter with each smile.

Grey thoughts are quietly amassing.

Quietly they sift dropping into a congealed pile.

This pile lacks feeling of any nature,

Just a formless ah and oh of all time.

It has a large yet insubsequent stature,

Just like this worthless scrap of rhyme.

Nothing is dark here, nothing is light.

There could be matter, dear, there could be,

But of no use to those who grovel to fight.

Just a quiet nothing pile of a quiet me.

Regrets are time consuming and arbitrary.

What is the use of vanity and thought,

When all that happened and would is contrary

To any life bought, any love sought?

The pile lingers and quietly grows.

Perhaps the only thing

That ultimately knows

A last song to sing.

To a friend, on her birthday

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia2 Comments

Swelling burdens have made our hearts colder,
Harder is the mind that becomes older,
Bitter are the years that keep on flowing,
Darker the despair that keeps on growing.
Fortunes or the vainer Powers That Be
Have pushed our souls to each extremity;
Our lives have inverted each dream we dreamed
Into the opposite of what they seemed.

But through it all, oh, dearest friend of mine,
In one way bested were the hands of Time:
No word or action, great or small, signifies
This presence of Hope that most love denies,
It lasts as better parts of you and me,
In some better part of eternity.

The Last Temptation

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

Before descending into earthly dust,
I must’ve stood before the Powers-That-Be,
What I could, what I should and what I must,
To a point where Mammon conditioned me
On how I need to worship his deity.
I must’ve smiled then, which raised powerful brows,
As I still do on this world, here and now
(Though these brows have nothing to do with fate)
I must’ve said something to his contrary;
The others must’ve smiled at this intellectual snobbery.
Then I was thrown down to this existence
But Mammon’s Father must’ve had the last laugh:
For wasn’t the Last Temptation a Life in the Ordinary?