The Existential Dilemma

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Why must you intimidate me so?
Looming large over my speck of a head.
Standing tall and grandiose,
Only the faces on the photographs change.
You tower above the rest,
Watchful, critical.
The hands that carried you from sand to pillars lie dead,
Like monuments razed to the ground.
So fleeting, to have existed for a fraction of your history,
When you just go on.
Only the shadows change,
On your walls,
From tinted panes to rusty hinges.
Overwhelmed, I gulp down my fate in a split second.
Why is it,
That you shall be,
In perpetuity.
And I shall not.
Why only the words to the song change,
Reverberating inside your halls.
Tell me why the faces change.

©bewitchinglyme

Poverty

I, the privileged one,
With food to last two square meals in my stomach,
Do not understand how,
You can die of poverty.
Go find yourself some work.
Stop being the scum that is upto no good,
Always tapping at out car windows,
Asking for alms.
Toil and labour,
For the sky is the limit I heard.
Fall into the clutches of vicious moneylenders.
We’ll find you by the pavement,
Drunk in a stupor.
But dream,
For the world is your oyster.
Aspire!
I refuse to believe you can die of poverty,
Or starve of opportunities.
I refuse to see beyond the promised land.
Come, brother,
Hold my hand and watch this nation change.
So cold.
I hold the soul of a man in my bare hands,
Cold and evanescent.
So long,
And dead.
@bewitchinglyme

The Night

This night,
Spreading like a cat on its claws,
Arches down the driveway,
Knocking air out of people;
Like smoke that freezes against glass windows,
For you to slide your fingers across it,
And give me a sign.
And I will stumble out with staggering steps,
Straight into you.
Take me somewhere,
Where I cannot hear it rattle,
Against my feet.
Where I cannot watch it dissolve into the humdrum of the day.
Brutal like a pack of wolves,
It chases me to the end of the road.
Gathering men around it.
Leeeing,
Groping,
Calling me names I know not why.
Because you say,
The night sold its secrets to the day.

Aparajita

Here’s an angel with broken wings, and a stuffed heart that bulges with emotions. She’s exhausted and desolate and weary of empty assurances, worthless hopes, and falsified truths. Hark, for she’s an angel and you’ve seen her smile, through tragedies and nightmares. And you’ve known her vanished tears to be yours, you’ve held her faith and trusted her strength. You have been the true friend, to her. Behold, for you’ve witnessed, the rise and fall of an angel. She might have been, at a time indeed, the one you found staring back at you from a mirror, but then, she was an angel, and you, your wings are gone.

Broken wings