breakdown

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the entry to the path of sorrow
begins with a moon-shaped tear,
a fissure made the exact measures
of guilt and trepidation —

the leaves are brown, shades
of evil intermixed with erased
shadows of hubris, the roots
extend to the edge of mindful
games, that we play and lose
against ourselves,

lifelike patchwork is the center-
fold to this closet-like space,
where any form of easement
into the wing and skin of things,
takes a toll on what keeps a breath
functional, carrying on the treble,

silver-busy emulations of the past
take the form of ghosts that come
out only in day-light, and work their
ethereal way through the doors
and dreams, the greed-eyed arrows
fixing, breaking disciplined griefs,

i have elsewhere to go, nowhere
to belong, enough of the calendars
and clocks have been spent, rendered
useless in the loss of feelings,

i gather exits to stop all my blind deeds
from recurring, and shut the banners in,
becoming the equipment of toil, to find
some need of listlessness, the coal-fire-
red glow spreading in criss-cross patterns,

as the ongoing landslide
is felt (the ground i tread upon in
beleaguerment slipping away)
before its coming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The Beauty Is In The Breakdown Painting by Kevin Cross)
For MLM Menagerie’s Bonus Wordle

Also Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

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dear, you…

back there, lights must have dimmed
to sorrow  –
have you, too?
~
dear, you…

i am okay  – all is as blue as it can be
quenching the brown of my eyes,

i love the red-white lighthouse,
bereft of tourists, amid the green,
i come here often
to find the pain of my solace,
of one kind  – the other kind
is left with you  –

sweet salt fumes linger on my lips,
the sea looks deep like loss, grains
of sand end up everywhere, like
the thought of you,

i am holding reins over
the beach or i will drown,
and building castles, and collecting
conch shells, and stark-white pebbles,

i will gather some for you, too.

 

.

For With Real Toads’ At the Seaside Challenge. The last sea I encountered was ruined by the urban mess of a metropolitan. That is not what I wrote about.
I instead remember the seas of Port Blair (2013) as I go about it – I went up that lighthouse on an island nearby only once and still, it left an impression on me. I was on my own, but for the blue expanse ahead and the green on all other sides.  The poem is fictional but that memory stirs these emotions in me – the palate of my thoughts turn to blue, grey and blood. Otherwise, I have no recollection of having written a postcard or a letter of this kind. What I had to write stayed within, brown and forlorn like my skin, not turned into the coherency of lines. If it were, it would have been something like this. And as fiction goes, it is never completely so. *winks*

*Also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

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