Tag: poem

I May

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.

Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.

Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.

I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.

Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?

The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?

As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.

Hello, Fool

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

 

Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?

When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?

More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.

Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.

Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.

What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.

To a Knight

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Dimples on an Officer –
Incongruous on someone trained to kill.
But the combination got me going;
And though it was against my will,
I got to know them better.
Both the dimples were two sides of a scale;
And as my prejudice’s wont,
I’ve gathered that to be the end of this tale!
I even cried a bit.
For two reasons (that I shall mention here):
One: he disdained to accept our friendship
In public because of his own societal fear;
Two: he reached out to a part of me I thought had died
And which was once something very dear.

I usually write in verse,
When I feel greatly;
And as you can see,
It’s the tears I seem to cherish and nurse.
There is no explanation why
Someone touches someone’s history;
In most cases, with repression,
It all seems to end up a mystery.
Not with me.
I know the romantic in me, who I strangled,
Came back to haunt me last night;
And, as I looked on, he successfully wrangled
Old wasted emotions and new pent-up fears:
Abandoned chances of being carried off by some knight;
Appalling certainties of old age and lonely tears.

28th February
5:45pm