A Dewdrop's Tale

A drop of dew
Pristine and brand new
Landed atop a blade of grass.
Though tempted by the wind's song,
Balanced itself on the blade's tip,
Strove to not trickle down
Lest the grass strand would lose its crown.
Birds stretched and perched
To take the morning's first flight
While the sunlight wrapped its
Arms around the earth & sky,
And the coy dewdrop glistened anew
In the multitude of a million hues.
Reluctantly, it began to bid
The grass fraternity adieu
Evanescing into vapour,
To accompany the wind
In the search of another grassy patch

The Echo

Before you set off on a song

Strumming tunes

Of a hunky dory future that calls,

That frenzied adrenaline rush,

Bring it to a halt.

(These dreams my dear,

Should be taken with a pinch of salt.)

If you're chasing a wish,

Because the inaudible frequencies

At the back of your mind

Clash rather than merge 

With your future song's rhyme,

Then you've clipped its' wings already

For your creations,

Fantastical as they may be,

Stem from a mental hypochondriac

Stamp of injustice.

Epilogue:

‘Do you often catch the chime of reality,

Singing to you a morbid lullaby

Have you lately been crawling

To unbeknownst corners and turns (in your mind)

Only to slide down back into the pit of

Questions, angst, fears?’

Problems are meant to motivate,

Turning our thoughts to action,

Not so we become complacent 

In our mind's utopia

While reality becomes

Only a reminder of 

The mental hypochondria 

We subconsciously keep 

Seeking a right to.

On Curiosity

How do you define something that always escapes us, 

Something which we sense only by virtue of its anticipation?

Curiosity (at times),

Turns out to be nothing but a tale

Waiting to be deciphered and interpreted

In a new way each time

For without the other, neither could exist.

Puzzled Enemy

There’s vengeance gnashing its teeth

The anger, blindfolded,  

Flagellates at my insides

Churning out a fresh helping

Of supine decay,

Feeding its crippled existence.

I shrink at the sight

Of fingers pointing at me

To then direct wobbly steps  

Of melting courage

To be able to peer at

The faces behind

The exclamations

Of accusations aimed at me.

Till I bump against a mirror,

That, I had thought to be a window.

My palms scramble for strength

Clamped on to the mirror

As I slip on to the floor

I hope the aches will

Numb me into sleep,

Till I wake up

To fidgeting arms and feet,

As the glass ceiling above shatters

To reveal in mockery

A mirrored ceiling right above,

Which I had thought to be the sky

Before I had entered the room.

 P.S. The mind is its own worst enemy. 

The Blame Game

Sometimes I think the situation's wrong

To then severe the blame from myself

Almost as though it were a part of me,

Thinking absolving oneself is a crime in itself,

All the while.

I discover a retrospected, yet un-inspected wrong-doing

And tug the blanket of blame over me,

And that's when another blame game 

Conspires to defeat me as it calculates

The next mortal embrace

I shall make at the count of fear.

There are times when we grant forgiveness to ourselves, and on some occasions, one ends up giving blame to oneself, as if the so called 'acceptance' will purge all. Blaming oneself every now and then can be compared to self-flagellation with no growth resulting out of it. We assume we know we're in the wrong in a particular situation, not remembering that the only guide of the situation here is your opinion/interpretation of the incident, the incident which is infinite in itself. And then one starts to fear and get used to having guilt hover around. Eventually, everything around gets shaded into the vicious cycle of anticipated or retrospected wrong-doing.