Senescence

The sagging flesh aches as the slightest of breeze
Nears to strum my skin,
So I flinch at the sight of leaves
Passionately brushing past each other, foreseeing
An impending agony.
As the crammed, fluffy clouds descend
To rest their worn bodies on my shoulder
I plead them to leave mine for I no longer can carry them.
Keeping up my pace with the hands of clock
Which never tires, I am knackered
Knackered enough to be shaded by an eternal exhaustion.
The leaking efficiency of my eyes and brain to communicate
Drips and puts out the embers of elation
Dimly lit.
To quench the thirst , I sip in
Few drops of remembrance , only to agonize
My already sore soul.
From framing the nuances of nature
On a square sheet of canvas, with the most coordinating shades
To cursing my inability to discern
The hue of the sky that plays peek-a-boo
With the voluminous clouds
From summoning the strongest of winds
To stab my supercilious skin
To not being at ease with the most humble zephyr
I’ve come a long way.
From dreading each atom with the wrath of my roar
To leaning against a speckled wall in my den
Longing to be served
I scuffle each day with my own self to decide
Whether to hold the grains of life fleeting from my fist
Or to just let it go.
As senescence sweeps in with audacity
Proclaiming its ascendance over my body
I feel ‘aging’ getting unmasked .

The rise and fall of the sun lose their meanings
For there is nothing to mark the inception or termination of.
Eyeballs rolling between the fathomless ends of sky
Seem to resonate with the incomprehensible
Abundance of hours which gush in.
Long hours of reclination throttles me
Makes me feel crippled, incompetent
And how distasteful it is to witness
The process of your own wilting.
I see the moon waning, thinning every day
Even the thinnest crescent
And I try to hold together the constellation
Of stars, connecting each of them
But fail
For I see the stars falling one by one too
People murmuring wishes into it
Not knowing how much the ‘ shooting star ‘ had wished
To stay in its constellation forever.
Rubbing the infant skin of a newly arrived
I sense the amalgamation of the star dust
Which had come off a star
That fell out from my constellation last night
While I see my wrinkles slowly crumbling back
To gleaming star dust
Bit by bit
Grain by grain
Everyday.
As I fantasize the springtide
My pragmatic mind tells me that in life
It’s winter that follows spring
And I know I set about on a linear path
For my journey
So there is no getting back.
Trembling in the biting wind
Every passing second
I just wait to succumb under the doleful winter sky.

Can poems written to be won, ever win?

As I scan through my Instagram feed
I come across posts bartering poems for shoutouts.
They read, “ The best entry shall receive a shoutout from our side”.
But I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “
For when I write, I write to be relieved
Of the obstinate gibber stone that squats
On my chest for long
I write to commune with my
Caged canary’s mellifluous but ignored song.
When the world sleeps and I
Wake up to suffer, I hold the pen
I hold the pen to let the words
Strangulating my diaphragm meander
Onto the paper, through the nib
As the pen wriggles on the sheet,
I hear a lullaby being crooned that rocks me to sleep.
They say, you need to be a poetry first
To scribble one.
But I doubt, am too plain
A poetry to be adored.
Am not always the dripping beauty
Of blossoms of mahogany in a spring
Or the gratification that a
Doting company is expected to bring.
You might not find me in the
Shades of smudged colours on chapped lips
Stenching of unfaithful men
Cursing, yet pleading and yelling for fidelity
Or lost between convoluted neurons
Trying to figure out why my mind
Doesn’t let sunshine to slither in.
Most of the time I’m just the rhythm
Of the clinking of my mother’s bangles
Or the abiding tears which refuse to be held back
When I embrace her, for its been long
Since she was last held.
Or may be I am the dust laden
Forgotten, abandoned cardboard box
And the reclusive, forlorn one
Out of a pair of socks.
I don’t know, whether being drenched
In the orange light of the morning sky
And smiling to let go of statements
That I know are a lie
Or repeatedly reminiscing the hurdles
That I’ve so gracefully overcome, to tell myself
That I am capable to be loved, by not you
Not them, but my own self,
Matter to you or not
But they mean the world to me
And I write only on things
That matter to me.
And I feel that my words easily
Carve their way out to the farthest corners
Of the hearts and souls of people and even writers
For I’ve heard that poets and poetesses
Have naked souls.
But I have never written to win
For I don’t know what it takes
For a poem to win.
And I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “