Life at Cross-Roads

There's no going forward, and there's no going backward, for it's not a regressive backward, it's not a forward-leap, either, for how do you know which is which, when can you ever claim to figure the coordinates of any point in infinity? There is no path because the path e-merged from the whole. To be sure, all paths lead us there, but all paths had begun from there, so there's no mid-point limbo where you're stuck. And all those paths, they spilled in all directions, criss-crossing each other, overlapping each other, like strains of water sliding down fogged-up window, suddenly giving you glimpses into the other end.

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. 

Before I Touch the Sky

You're welcoming the future with open arms
As you shrink from your own reflection.
Lost in creating that Utopian vision 
Of the future
Which you think is waiting to walk up to you,
When all you have done 
Is to run to the past for solace,

And away from it when you were you realised 
You'd bore enough.

Before you soar off on the flight of dreams, 

Dreams you're afraid to call your own yet,
Watch where to your thoughts sway
Amidst the sands of time.

I Imagined a Poem

Life is

Just as I'd

Declared it

In my scribblings.

[It is] precise to the extent 

Of the [now] most appealing and repulsive

Contours and intricacies,

Some overwrought with older etchings,

Made darker by attempts 

At rubbing them out- 

Of where, pray?

[The eternal itch of perfecting the complete, you see.]

I'd dropped them 

Into a box called time

Shuffled into compartments 

Of past, present and future.

We mistake dreams for reality.

And then

Do you mistake imagination for imagination nowadays?

In your sleepwa(l)king consciousness?

The weaved hollow of Empiricism,

The added undulations of space and duration.

Somewhere, one's interpretations

Sewed into another's visualizations

Vis-a-vis

The maze you charted for yourself

To be/get lost

Where all that has existed yet,

Is the reality of the imaginary.

Knowing there would arrive a juncture

When you would be breathing

Into a kaleidoscope of chaos

Waiting to wade into patterned perfection, 

Eventually, when; Alas! 

You fell for time, again, time and again!

And shifted to the infested realm 

Of hackneyed manifestations.

As the universe thrusts that sheet of paper

On to the pen in my hand,

In my quest to trace and quench 

The voices sketched somewhere

In the white void of the sheet,

As I pen verses of salt & pepper.

P.S. Reality gets as real as the illusions we create. Reality is a vulnerable entity that never existed. Imagination is mistaken for unreality, were that a legit term, to explain the context better.

The Burden of Hope

The promise of Fate lands in your sight.
You exult, with eyes shut tight,
Arms stretched out to the sky.
Trying to grasp the future in this present moment

The veil of time binds, yet separates
The present and the anticipated future event
That you ardently await.
And you thought Knowledge always gave you strength?

In the midst of planning your life all over again,              [Some think they can.]
When memories strike, nightmares jolt you;
Where do you exist?
In the past, present, Or the cusp of perpetual pain?