In The Middle Of The Night

There’ll be moments
Fighting mortality,
Waiting for you, telling no one.
To no one
Shall cater the cries,
And the past
Shrieking into the silence
Of broken dreams,
Of broken strings,

Deep into time.
Deep into sands that swallow half-shells,
And half-memories,
Half-forgotten and half-alive,
Half-lost in hindsight.

Only to form again
In disjointed halves,
Raising its neck over the coming tide,
Before breaking again
Into a thousand parts,
Into an emptiness that’s cold,
That’s cruel,
That’ll hold;
Weeping and wailing,
Dreaming and disappearing.

There’ll be you,
Dreams of you,
Desires and despairs of you,
All that’s launched directionless,
All my heart could manage,
On faraway nights,
On nights long, long back,
That shall one day find their way to you.
All of me will find all of you.

And one day,
You’ll wake in the middle of the night.

______________________
Subham Basak
(January 2, 2017)

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Starry Night Sky and Girl Watercolor – Art Painting Print 8×10 by Heatherlee Chan | Lady

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Vacated

Man has always lived by emotions. To not emote was just another emotion. They change, men change. And we travel from one to another, in a day or in a less definite period like we travel from one room to another in a house. The mindscape readjusts some colours, and a new room houses us, lending our minds another form.

But just sometimes, we memorize a series of emotions to a set of stimuli in such a way that they become not rooms, but a house. Giving our beings as macroscopic shelter than microscopic shades. Give them long enough, it becomes who were are, and wandering through the city, we always remember the way back to our houses, houses that have now turned to homes.

And just rarely, sitting at a table, looking at a VDU, on just another of ordinary days, we are reminded of our old shelters. Who were we when we inhabited them? Who were we in its shelter? Who were we in a past we now have kept safe as a memory, guarding consciously against every tide of Time? And released by an unforeseen stimuli, the mind races back, leaping years and spaces and send us knocking at a door, a door that once belonged to our home. A old home. Deserted. Untouched. Unoccupied. And we beat on furiously at the door to set another foot, just another, in a place that was once ours. We beat on, and on and on. In pain, in vain. There’ll never be another response.

Where are you, My Love? How far?

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