Thursday morning encounter

Its a Thursday morning.
People are hurrying
like ants.
All in motion,
trying to get somewhere.
Probably their non-desirable nine to fives.
Heads buried in flimsy screens,
ears plugged.
Seeming focused.
Ignoring their kind.
March rain falls quietly.
Seated at last, I notice
a child of four
beside me.
With his mud brown skin,
glistening.
Face pressed against the glass,
counting the drops on the window
or trees in interminable distance.
I can’t tell.
Occasionally breaking the silence
with loud abrupt noises;
unafraid of attention.
His curiosity grows and spreads
beyond the passing sceneries.
He’s so unlike human.
I can’t relate to him.
I sense a peculiar space between us.
Like he’s close enough for me to touch,
yet light years away.

Advertisements

Its a real tragedy
that every prose, every verse
has already been written.
In some way.
Every pain has been felt,
every sorrow expressed.
It steals our take on originality.
and stirs an avalanche of unease.

Poetry, I realised
wasn’t something I could force.
There were times, it came to me
like a revelation.
but mostly I maundered,
in search of a word,
like a missing puzzle piece.
I knew there was a word.
That would fit and legitimise,
my expression.
I knew it existed,
somewhere in the hollows of my mind,
forgotten.
But the flow was obstructed,
ripples disrupted,
carried it further and further
away from me.