A Dream’s Spine

I’ll write about you again.
As if I never have.

You know, I’ve been trying
To swim with just my hands,
Beating and battering the water all around,
Knowing that
My legs are tied.

My lungs have inhaled so much poison,
But I’ve been trying to breathe
Through the mouth,
Knowing that
My nose is clipped.

My hands are patchy
I tried to pick filth from water
I worked all day, all year,
Knowing that
My hands were bare.

I still dream of love,
When the voices are quiet;
And dream of day,
Endlessly on an endless night.

And I dream that
One day, when skins would
Crave for one another,
And will realise,
It’s all that was missing
Through all the meandering,
All our winning and losing,
None of which, now matters,
We’ll cry a little.
We’ll leave it to the skins
And stay absolutely quiet.

And like we haven’t in years,
We might sleep a little,
Trusting,
Closing the drenched eyes.

And when hammered back
By Reality’s tireless blows,
Torturing and testing
A dream’s spine–

I’ll write about you again.
As if I never have.

Sometime.

_____________________
Subham
Jan29
2018

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Stranded

I could tell you stories
About how a world gets buried.
How millions of them get perished
And converted. To one of rubble.

I could tell you stories
Of tears. Losing their worth.
Never given a chance to discover any.
Buried in eyes that aches of loss.

I could tell you stories
About toys. About the smell of childhood
That they carry. That are bargained
To sustain households daily turning more humble.

I could tell you about names.
About a few million tales
Set aside for them, names labelling each,
And each ending midway, each casually slain.

I could tell you about homes,
About the ghosts that haunt them,
About the darkness, despair, and delusions
They go through, inquisitional, as you abandon them.

I could tell you about
That famous winter fair
Of a village that lost all its kids.
I could tell you about
A last leaf, hating its green,
Stretching itself to the wind,
Craving for a cradle, awaiting death’s kiss.

Or

I could tell you about forced endings.
About how certain things simply end.
Without notice.
And ones that don’t, feel stranded.
Without practice.

___________________

Subham Basak
(December 16, 2016)

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Image credit: http://ahntify.com/the-intensely-visceral-images-of-naava/